This is Home
by Sisimka
Summary: Iain MacKinnon was captured by Howe during the fall of Highever. After six months torture, he escaped and stowed away to sea. This is the story of Iain's return to Ferelden. Rated M for mature themes.
1. Through Adversity, Strength

_Iain MacKinnon was captured by Howe during the fall of Highever. After six months torture, he escaped and stowed away to sea. This is the story of Iain's return to Ferelden. Rated M for mature themes._

_If you are interested in learning more about Iain MacKinnon as a character, visit my profile page for links._

_As always, thank you to Bioware for letting me play in their sandbox._

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><p><em>The bannorn, 2 Firstfall, 31 Dragon<em>

Through Adversity, Strength

Iain stood on the deck of _La Stella Cadente _and watched the coastline of Ferelden draw nearer. A curious feeling gripped him as he gazed upon a shore he had not seen in just over eighteen months – a combination of homesickness and anxiety. It felt odd to be homesick at the end of his journey, but there it was, a great surge of wistful longing. And there, across the water, lay his home.

As the ship rounded the headland, familiar landmarks caught his eye. Among them, a tree that clung stubbornly to a promontory of rock forming the western lip of the large, natural harbor. It remained steadfastly in place, its bare branches mirroring the roots wrapped about and through fissures in the cliff. Iain had climbed out along the trunk, on a dare, at the age of ten, and had never forgotten the sensation of hanging out over the ocean, the cliff behind him, open sky before him, air all around him, wind plucking at his shirt and hair. He'd looked down and marveled at the sea below, the same wind barely ripping the surface so that the water appeared smooth and deceptively calm. Beneath the dark grey blue water dangerous currents pulled back and forth about the rocks. If he dropped from the tree, and survived the fall, he'd likely find himself tugged beneath the surface by invisible fingers and dashed on the rocks piled at the bottom of the cliff.

The first time he climbed the rigging aboard _La Stella Cadente _he'd remembered the tree. The same wind pulled at his shirt and hair and he'd experienced the same almost vertigo looking at the calm ocean spread around the ship. The difference had been that no land lay behind him, no rocks beneath him. The deep, blue water had stretched to every horizon, making him feel very, very small.

Shading his eyes, Iain peered up the main mast of the ship, at the crow's nest perched at the top. He wondered if he'd be able to see his home from up there, if he'd see Stormgard. The village of his birth lay about half a day's walk south and west of West Hill, an hour or so south of the cliff with the tree. He didn't climb the rigging though, instead he made his way below to check his pack, find his cat, and begin the task of saying goodbye to another home.

About an hour later, the helmsman, Inigo, gave the signal to drop anchor and the familiar sounds of the docks drifted up from below; ropes hitting the sides of the ship, the shouts of the dock workers, seagulls wheeling over head, a bell ringing somewhere in the distance, the voices of the crew as they prepared for shore. Iain gazed out over West Hill, a town he'd visited a few times as a child. It looked like many towns he'd seen during his travels, the buildings angling away from the docks, the castle on the hill behind, and there, in the distance, the ruined fort. It also looked different, somehow, in a way that he could not define. It just looked... Fereldan.

A soft voice sounded at his side. "Are you ready, Iain?"

Iain glanced over and down to the slight figure of the ship's healer, Shy'danu.

"No," he answered quietly. He knew she'd understand his answer and his trepidation. He had many friends aboard, and he talked to them all, about various things. Only with Shy, however, did he speak of his time in Howe's dungeons. Only the small elven woman beside him knew the full horror of what he had endured. She had treated his injuries and she listened to his story.

Now, she pressed a small cloth bag into his hand. "For the dreams," she said. Shy never called the nightmares.

Nodding soberly, Iain slipped the pouch into his pocket. "Thank you, Shy, for... everything." He wrapped his arms about her shoulders and pulled her into a close embrace and she hugged him fondly in return.

As they parted, she touched her fingers to the scar upon his face. "Dareth shiral." _Safe journey_.

Then it was time to leave. He took a last, lingering look across the deck, taking in the details he wanted to remember. He had his sketches, he had many of the ship and her crew, but he still wanted to look at it all, one last time. He made his toward the gangplank and the crew saluted him or reached for his hand. His friends and the officers had gathered together in a tight cluster and looking at them brought a lump to his throat. These men and women had become his family.

He grasped the boatswain's hand and Lyndon offered him a firm shake before releasing his grip and cuffing him gently about the ear. "Be good, lad." Iain smiled and nodded. He shook hands with his friend, Harry, who gave him a cheeky, leering sort of wink, and moved on to Graciela and Inigo. They both gave him a hug and passed him on to the captain's son, Elias.

It was hard to say goodbye to the younger man. No one would ever replace his twin, the other half of him, but Elias had become as a brother and he would miss him. Reaching into his pocket, Iain pulled out a small, cloth wrapped bundle and handed it to his friend. Elias took it, a questioning look on his face, and pulled away the folds of material to reveal a compass. Iain had thought the instrument elegant in its simplicity and he felt Elias would appreciate the attention to function over form. Swirling designs and gold inlay would not help it find north, but the heavy, crystal face would resist scratching and not mist in bad weather. It was a practical piece. The young man blinked at the gift, then looked up, his face happy and sad at the same time. "Thank you," he whispered.

"You will write to me from the other side of the world, I hope," Iain replied.

Elias would need more than this simple compass, and he had others, to achieve his dream, but Iain had no doubt the young man would get there one day.

Angus, the first mate, growled, as was his manner, chewed something, leaned over the railing to spit, and then hooked his arm about Iain's shoulders. "Ah, Iain, there's hard times ahead for ya, lad." He pulled the tall young man against his side in a gruff sort of embrace. "I'll be thinking of ya, be sure you do the same, eh?" A hand came up to slap Iain across the chest, vaguely where his heart was. "Keep us here and never forget your mistress." The old sailor cast his eyes out over the railing, towards their 'mistress', the sea.

"Be well, ser," Iain said in reply.

Growling again, Angus patted his chest and let him go. "Off with ya, all this standin' around makes me antsy."

Iain smiled and turned his head slightly, pretending not to notice the shine in the older man's eyes. For all his rough manner, Angus had the biggest heart of anyone he knew.

Socks leaned against his legs and Iain bent to pick the cat up and sling it over his shoulder. His feline companion lay limp, front paws dangling over his shoulder blade, chin resting lightly between, rear paws and tail draped down the front of his shirt.

Captain Felix Idowu shook his head at the cat, smiled at Iain and gestured for the young man to precede him down the gangplank. When they reached the dock, the captain stuck out his hand. Iain shook it firmly and swallowed over the lump in his throat, which seemed to have grown in the last two minutes.

"Captain," he started and Idowu raised his hand. Iain fell silent.

"Iain, I want to thank you for your service aboard La Stella Cadente." The captain held out a small pouch and, when Iain hesitated, he thrust it further forward. Iain took it and tried not to gasp at the weight. He'd never held so much coin in all his life.

"Captain," he tried again, and again, Idowu raised his hand.

"If you do not find what you are looking for, know that you always have a place with us. Always. You were not born to the sea, son, but she loves you, and you are a part of our family now."

Iain looked at the man he reckoned had saved his life and found he couldn't speak. He pressed his lips together and blinked away the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Feeling one roll down his cheek, he lifted his shoulder, wiping his face against his shirt briefly. The captain did not seem to find fault with the display of emotion, instead he tilted his head and smiled. Iain would never have figured Felix Idowu for the hugging type, but the man surprised him yet again by pulling him into a fond embrace. Then the Rivani grasped his cheeks, kissed him on the forehead and offered his final blessing. "Live well."

"And you," Iain managed, softly.

The captain patted Socks on the back. "And look after my cat."

Iain smiled and let the next tear roll down his cheek unhindered. "I will," he replied. "Captain..." he paused, almost expecting the man to interrupt him again. When he didn't, Iain continued. "Thank you," he said simply. Words could never express the gratitude he held towards this man, but they were all he had to give.

Idowu placed his hand over his broad chest, his fingers tapping about where he had three words tattooed across his skin. The captain's motto, his mantra, the ideal he imparted to his crew and his family.

_Per ardua vis._ Though adversity, strength.


	2. The Pumpkin Patch

The Pumpkin Patch

The setting sun painted the clouds across the horizon in varying hues of orange, red and purple. The clouds and the sky looked different on land; he'd noticed it before, briefly, when the masts of ships at port obstructed his view of the ocean. Here, further inland, nothing but clouds marred the sky and the horizon did not form a clear, unbroken line, it undulated over distant hills and around stands of trees. Smoke from the village below curled into the low clouds and the colours of the sunset seemed more defined.

Iain crested the last rise and caught his breath as Stormgard came into view. Immediately, his gaze flicked to the west, to the ocean, though he could not see it beyond the low cliffs. Then he turned his attention south once more, to the village itself. His feet stopped moving and the young man stood still, gazing over the rooftops, counting the houses, remembering the names of each family. He looked towards the tavern and the square, the market, the small manor house atop the hill. To the east, the forest rolled back over the hills and, nestled against the bank of the river, lay the sawmill. Further south, he saw farms, like those he'd walked past for the last two hours, the houses surrounded by their patchwork of fields.

Socks yowled quietly and Iain stooped to let the cat climb from his neck. The small creature stretched, arching his back, and padded off to the side of the road to mark his territory. Iain watched his companion for a moment, making sure he did not intend to explore further, and then looked back towards the village. He picked out the roof of the MacKinnon house, towards the top of the village, on the west side, and saw smoke curling from the chimney. He could just make out the door and as he watched, it opened and a figure stepped out. From this distance he thought it might be his mother – the shadows in the yard obscured details. The cat leaned against his leg and Iain smiled down at his friend.

"Come on, Socks, let's see what's for dinner."

He began walking again, and Socks trotted along beside him, happy it seemed, for the excuse to use his own paws for a change. A short while later Iain approached the gate surrounding the yard. Looking through the slats, he noticed the squash vines tangled across one side of the garden. Here and there orange pumpkins and pale yellow squash peeked out from beneath the broad, green leaves. Kneeling in the midst of the patch, pulling at a weed, was Theresa MacKinnon, his mother. She had a scarf tucked over her head, but it barely restrained the familiar blonde curls, so similar to his.

As Iain stood there, hesitating, Socks curled through his legs and slipped through the fence posts. With a friendly meow, he approached the woman in the pumpkin patch, either recognizing her as one of his people or just hoping she'd have a friendly word and a soft hand. Theresa looked up at the cat and smiled.

"Well hello there, who are you?"

The sound of her voice caused an odd squeezing sensation in Iain's chest and a ragged grunt fell from his lips. She looked up at the sound and gasped, falling back on her heels. Neither of them moved for perhaps a whole minute, they simply stared, eyes flicking back and forth, taking in details. Iain stepped forward, his entire manner unsure. He'd not been able to adequately prepare himself for this moment. He did not know if they'd got his letter, or if they believed him dead... _Like Rafi_. He could only vaguely grasp what it might be like to think both your children gone from this world, never to be seen again. For his part, intense emotion filled him, indefinable, a combination of joy and sadness he could not separate, but only feel together.

With an odd cry, Theresa finally struggled to her feet. Her fingers covered her lips as she whispered, "Iain?"

Nodding, he pushed through the gate, his steps clumsy for no good reason. He shrugged his shoulders, easing the pack from his right side first, before slipping it over his left arm and dropping it to the ground. He didn't have to step forward any further as she was suddenly there before him and he smiled down at his mother as a very familiar expression replaced the confusion and pain that had moved across her face.

"Where...?" _Where have you been?_ A question so often asked and rarely answered adequately. It seemed he'd always been somewhere he shouldn't have been. This time, however, a simple answer, even an easy lie, would not suffice.

As if he'd not been away from home for nearly three years, he said, "Hello, mum."

A wail left her lips and she stumbled forward, throwing herself at her son. "Maker's breath, Iain," she gasped before flinging her arms about him, the wiry strength of her apparent in the firm hold.

Iain hugged her back just as fiercely, his chest heaving with choked breaths. He could feel her trembling and sobbing and it made his stomach knot horribly, it felt almost worse than if he'd never come home. He feared for her, that it might be too much, to have been robbed of two children, only to have one step from the side of the road one day, unexpectedly. His mother soaked his shirt with her tears and her hands kept moving, grasping his arms, touching at his clothes, his hands, his chest and his face, as if to check he was all there, really there. She touched the scar across the left side of his face, her brows drawing together in something more than motherly concern, and she hugged him all over again, her blonde head buried against his shoulder.

Finally, she let him go only to grab his arm and pull him towards the house. Iain reached for his pack and stepped after her. Socks followed along, unperturbed by events.

Once inside, Theresa moved quickly to the kitchen to stir the pot she had set over the fire, muttering as she scraped the bottom. Turning to glance at him over her shoulder, she gave him a weak smile. "I think a few burnt bits are a small price to pay, oh, Iain." Then she was in front of him again, grasping his hands and smiling up at him with such love it made his heart hurt.

"Where have you been?" she finally asked.

_Where have I been?_ Shaking his head, unable to answer such a question easily, Iain let out a breath. "Everywhere, at sea. It's... it's a long story." Had they got his letter? "I wrote to you."

Eyes wide, she nodded and walked to the mantle, her fingers slipping beneath the lid of a small silvered box. She pulled out a tattered piece of parchment. The only words visible on the outside were MacKinnon and Stormgard. That it had been delivered at all amazed him. The inside was a mess of water marks, vague scrawls, holes, stains. It was... unreadable.

"We never knew," she said, folding the wrinkled square back over again. "I... we all hoped, but..." Her tears came again and she stood there shaking her head, tears in her eyes again. Iain took the parchment from her fingers and returned it to the box. His fingers brushed other letters in there and his heart leapt, briefly, wondering if they were from Rafi. He suspected they were older than that though, the dutiful letters home they'd both written from Highever.

Looking down at his mother, he said, "I sent it from Rialto, in Antiva." Her eyes widened and he found himself smiling at the surprise and wonder in her expression. He'd been that far, her eyes said. _I've been so much further_, he answered. "I'm sorry I didn't write more..." and here he trailed off, brows drawing together as he turned to gaze into the hearth instead. He found it hard to articulate why he'd not written letters every day. At first he'd just been unable to communicate, to anyone. Then he'd wondered if it might be better to let them believe he'd died, a combination of shame over his capture and torture and grief over the loss of his sister paralyzing his hand, stilling his pen on the page. He'd written finally after the pirate attack, when the captain had released him from his oath, when he'd felt as if he might actually see Ferelden again.

Theresa shook her head again, obviously at a loss for words. There was too much to say and it could not be said all at once. It would take more than a slice of time before dinner to tell his story, answer her questions.

Worn by the emotion of the day, the farewells to the crew and the reunion with his mother, he took her hands and led her to the kitchen table. The large, pine surface had become stained over time, but still retained a beautiful honey gold colour. The table legs were strong, yet delicate, rounded and turned, the shape of them enhancing the grain of the wood. His grandfather had made the table as a young man and it had always sat there, in the centre of the kitchen. It was the heart of their household, where they ate, talked, played cards and simply sat. They just sat now and his mother refused to let go of his arm, as if afraid he might disappear if she did.

When the front door opened again, the sound followed by the stamping of two pairs of boots and quiet conversation, Iain steeled himself for the next round. His father and grandfather had arrived home. The voices drew closer as the two men made their way to the kitchen, towards the smell of stew and the warmth of the fire. Both voices broke off as Callum MacKinnon and his father in law, Gavin Morren entered the room. Iain had turned in his chair to face the door. He stood.

"Holy Andraste," Callum swore softly before striding across the room to envelope his son in a hug. Of a height, the two men embraced closely, their chins over one another's shoulders. Iain felt the slight tremble in his father's large, strong frame and he knew he was shaking also. Again, the feeling was terrible, confusing almost. He knew his family loved him, he'd always known, but to be clung to so fiercely communicated it louder than any words might have. Drawing back, his father grasped both his cheeks and kissed his forehead, much as Captain Idowu had done. "My son," he said, dropping his hands to Iain's shoulders, squeezing them, then patting.

Gavin took his turn then and Iain embraced his grandfather more gently, but with no less feeling, the man's shorter, wider body almost more sturdy in his arms than his father's had been. His grandfather knew loss; he might have coped better, outwardly. But he looked no less pleased to see Iain than any other in the room.

Clapping him on the shoulder again, Callum asked, "Where have you come from, Highever? Why did not Sera write us?"

At his sister's name, Iain's lungs refused to work. His body no longer responded to his command. He tried to breathe, but could not, and the only sound he heard was the swish and pulse of his own blood, the soft beat of it behind his ears. Rafi was...?

Finally, his body came back to him, but in a useless fashion. His legs trembled and his lips worked over inarticulate sounds and the rushing blood swirled about his head, causing the room to spin. He stumbled and his father and grandfather caught him, guided him to a chair. Sitting heavily, he dragged air into his lungs, the sound of it ragged. He dropped his head between his knees, combating dizziness and sudden, odd nausea.

He'd hoped, he'd always hoped, but he'd never known. Now he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, his sister, his twin, his other half, was alive.


	3. Alright

Alright

Pulling the small, cloth pouch from his pocket, Iain measured a precise portion of the herbs into a mug of warm water. He'd not anticipated how difficult it might be to request a simple cup of water, warm enough to dissolve the herbs, but without the traditional tea. His mother had looked at him oddly, just for a moment, before handing him the mug. Then, grasping his cheeks, she pulled his head within reach so she could kiss him goodnight.

It wasn't that late, but he was exhausted. Not from the walk, from the evening, from elation and tears. From talking and remembering. Had he not known Rafi was alive, he'd have felt her and seen her all night. His twin resembled his grandmother, now passed, but her mannerisms, her voice, they were MacKinnon. He saw her in his mother's face and his father's hands, he felt her in the house.

After he recovered from the shock of hearing Serafina had survived Ostagar, he been overwhelmed with questions. How, when, where? He'd asked them, or had tried to, forgetting his own story in his eagerness to hear all about his sister. A part of him wanted to grab his pack and his cat and run out the door that very night, and all the way to Highever. A younger Iain might have, the squire who thought he knew all about patience and perseverance, who thought he knew all about the world and what to expect from it. He'd have run until he dropped, slept, and run again. In his heart he did just that, in a sense, as he leapt from question to question, barely pausing for answers before he asked the next.

She had been injured, her left wrist. A tickling finger traced his spine as he glanced at his own left hand, the gnarled knuckles obscured by the shadows and dim lamp light. His grandfather followed his gaze and Iain removed his hand from the table and set it in his lap. He avoided Gavin's eyes for a few minutes afterwards, looking instead at his mother, then his father, as each of them spoke.

After Highever had been restored to the Couslands (Serafina had participated in the rebellion – pride in his sister swelled his chest as regret and shame at his absence curled in his gut), Rafi had returned home, to Stormgard. She'd been quiet, they said. At this, Iain frowned. He was the loud one, Rafi was the quiet one, these facts were immutable. He'd calmed over time and she'd learned to come out of her shell a little, but they were who they were, male and female, light and dark, loud and quiet, opposite sides of the same coin. For his parents to tell him Rafi had been quiet meant something else entirely.

It struck him then, and the dizziness he'd felt earlier returned. She'd been through her own version of his nightmare and thought him dead. He remembered how he'd been a year before; he'd barely been able to speak, still.

_Oh, Rafi..._

He felt he'd failed her again, then, just as he'd felt so when he'd first heard about Ostagar and on and off over the past year and a half – when he dared think of her at all. He felt the tearing inside, the pain that grabbed him when he imagined her gone.

"Iain?" His father's voice was soft, gentle, and Iain glanced up and saw the concern in the older man's face. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, he almost always did in answer to that question. He'd escaped Howe's dungeon; every day after that he was alright.

A meal had passed while they talked and Iain did not remember the taste of it, but when they wanted to know his story, he was glad for the warmth in his belly.

"What happened to you?" One of them asked. It didn't matter who, they all wanted to know.

Pulling his left hand out of his lap, he put it palm down on the table and moved it forward so that the lamp sent his oddly shaped knuckles into stark relief against the shadowed valleys between. His grandfather's attention shifted to his hand immediately. It wasn't a gruesome injury, only his most visible one, besides the scar on his face and the brand on his wrist. He kept his sleeve pulled down on the right side out of habit now, rather than show off that particular mark.

"I fought Howe's men," he said. "I fought them until I lost my shield and my sword and then I hit them with my fists. I lost my gauntlet and I kept fighting." His father reached over to squeeze his forearm. Iain turned is cheek slightly to highlight the scar that traced the right side of his face, almost from the corner of his mouth to his ear, following the line of his jaw. "That's where this is from, an arrow caught me. I'd lost my helm," he'd only had it a month, "I'd lost nearly everything then, they were like frenzied animals the way they came at us." It had all been so very different to sparring with others in the yard. No politeness, no rules, no breaks for refreshment – only the endless clash of steel, the sting of his wounds, thirst as the night wore on, the haze of smoke and stirred dust. Pain. Men dying, not falling away to crawl back to their feet, by dying, leaving blood on his sword and his hands. As the bodies piled up he'd not been able to distinguish friend from foe and the castle had reeked of blood. He still had little idea who else had died, who else might have survived.

"The arrow knocked me into a wall and I don't remember much after that. My ribs were broken and it was hard to breathe. I'd hit my head... I remember hitting someone until my hand broke," even now, catching his knuckles against something solid caused him to wince in memory, "and then I was in the dungeon." He'd not felt every wound or bruise as it happened, he'd been caught up by the need to keep going, to stay on his feet. Only afterward, in the dungeon, had it hurt, together, all at once.

A soft whimper came from his mother, and Iain turned to look at her. She had her hand to her mouth again and she looked so very frightened. Reaching across the table, he took her other hand in his. "It's alright mum," every day after his escape was alright, "I escaped."

He wouldn't tell them what had happened below Vigil's Keep. Only one person had that story, Shy'danu. She was the keeper of his memories, his stories, as she was for all the crew of _La Stella Cadente._ And even if he wanted to tell it, he wouldn't. To tell them what their child had suffered – it would be wrong, he felt that with ever fibre of his being. He'd escaped, that was all they needed to know. He was alright.

He told them of finding Idowu's ship, of the captain himself, of the bargain, and briefly of his time aboard. They all nodded in silence and he realised they were as tired as he; it was too much to tell in one night.

Sitting in his room later, he gazed down at the mixture swirling in the mug and then he drank the tea quickly, grimacing at the taste of moldy leaves. He did not dream every night, in fact, over the last few months his nightmares had been less and less frequent. He'd barely used the herbs at all, and usually only after waking from a dream, so that he might spent the rest of the night more peacefully. This night, however, he would take no chances. He had learned to anticipate times when he was more susceptible to the dreams. When he was over tired, emotional or not well. When he was angry or depressed. Unfortunately, a side effect of using the herbs too often was that very depression that might bring on nightmares. It was a balancing act – such was life.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, he leaned down to pull his boots off. After removing his socks, he inspected the soles of his feet, checking the twin scars for signs of swelling or infection. He'd walked far that day. The marks looked a little red, but otherwise fine. He stared at the sole of his right foot for a while, forgetting where he was, and then he looked up at the bed across the room, Rafi's bed, or, now, his grandfather's. Dropping his foot, Iain let his mind wander back across the years. He smiled as he imagined a pillow sailing across the room towards him, the combination of pout and frown on his sister's face. Likely he'd said something or done something to antagonise her and she'd retaliated. He'd teased her horribly, not because he was cruel, but because... he could. She knew him like no other. He could say things to Rafi that no one else would understand. Sometimes it felt as if they spoke a different language to the rest of the world and when they played and teased, he knew he could approach the edge and never quite topple over. Always she forgave him. In return, always, he was there for her. Whatever she asked, whatever she wanted, he could not deny.

He'd failed her, and it tore at him again, how much he'd missed her. In the dungeon he'd sung to her. Sometimes quietly, sometimes loudly. Sometimes he imagined her singing with him. The other prisoners had complained at first, then, when he didn't sing, when he'd been beaten too badly, tortured too cruelly, or was sick with fever, they worried for him and whispered snippets of tunes they remembered, encouraging him to sing again.

His shoulders began to tremble and he crossed the room to her bed, which was now his grandfather's but he still imagined it was hers, and he curled up on it and hugged the pillow, missing her more now than he had before. Now that she was so close, yet still too far away. The mattress dipped lightly behind him as Socks leapt up from the floor and a soft, rumbled purr sounded as the cat picked his way over Iain's curled body to settle against his stomach. Iain stroked his friend absently, then slipped his arm around the cat, moved him upwards and let his tears fall into fur. Socks didn't mind, he'd performed the service before. After a while, the herbs took hold and man and cat together slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	4. Sunrise, Sunset

Sunrise, Sunset

"Forget which bed was yours, lad?"

Iain yawned, scrubbed at his face and peered into the kitchen. The ruddy glow of dawn filtered through the open shutters and filled the room with rosy light. His grandfather sat at the table, drinking tea, and his mother and father stood together by the hearth. A sense of rightness tickled at him, seeing the familiar postures, smelling the toasted bread, bacon, cooked oats and tea. He was home and it hadn't changed, much – Rafi wasn't standing behind him, nudging him to move out of the way.

Moving into the kitchen, Iain sat at the table and grinned across at his grandfather. "Well, after a hammock, the choice between two beds was overwhelming, grandpa. I wanted to test them both out."

A soft scratch sounded at the back door and his mother moved to open it. "And here's your friend."

Socks performed his most thorough stretch in the doorway, head down, bottom up, back curved between, tail pointing towards the ceiling. Then the cat offered a general greeting, a meow meant for the entire room, and made his way towards the table and leapt into Iain's lap with a small, throaty trill.

With a bemused smile, his mother said, "Where did he come from, Iain?"

After slipping a piece of bacon to his friend, Iain explained. "Sock was born at sea. They had a few cats on board and this one just decided to adopt me." Likely the cat had been thrilled to discover a person who kept a bed warm for more than six hours at a stretch. Iain had slept the clock 'round for days at first, and hours beyond the normal span for weeks afterwards until he'd regained his stamina. Almost always he'd awoken to find a warm lump at his side. He'd welcomed Socks' company from the first. A cat didn't require him to talk, only to be there, and that he'd been able to do. He didn't mind admitting it had also been a comfort to have something to hug at night.

His father and grandfather prepared to leave for their day of work and Iain said, "If you can spare a minute, I will come," before hastily finishing his breakfast. He ran back to get his boots and a coat and then slid back through the kitchen on socked feet.

His mother laughed. "Iain, slow down!"

It even sounded like home.

His grin wider, Iain bent to lace his boots, stopped to grab a pair of work gloves from the common box by the door, kissed his mother's cheek and stepped outside. Then he took a breath. His father and grandfather were waiting by the gate and when he reached them, he turned back, knowing his mother would be standing in the open doorway. She didn't want him to work today, he knew that. It was part of why he went. He needed to show her he was well – healthy and strong – and, if pressed, he'd admit to a certain fear at being in her company all day. She'd want to talk, ask questions.

Socks curled about her legs and he smiled at his companion, knowing the cat would stay put and await his return. Cats seemed to know where home was, instinctively. He waved to the pair and turned to follow the older men towards town.

"I see you are have as much energy as ever," his father commented as Iain moved into step beside him.

Gavin chuckled. "He sleeps like a rock, Callum, didn't even snore last night." The old man shook his head and then peered at Iain's nose, as if trying to decide what had changed. His eyes narrowed as they settled on the break, the small misalignment at the top. "Sometimes a broken nose is a blessing, eh?"

"In this case we'll say so," Iain answered casually enough. He'd not known his nose had been broken; he'd not been able to distinguish the pain of the break from his other injuries. It had been just another ache to add to the collection of bruises left over by a severe beating. Shy told him afterwards that the break had mended neatly enough and, well, he'd been lucky.

The three men walked in companionable silence the rest of the way.

His grandfather and father were known collectively as Morren & Son and had built many of the houses in the village. When not working in construction, Gavin liked to make furniture and Callum liked to fix things. He made repairs to structures damaged by time, weather and mishaps. His father-in-law helped out on the larger jobs.

Presently, they were in the final stages of building a house for the second eldest Darrow. Clinton Darrow planned to marry in the spring and this would be the house he took his bride home to. Folks didn't always build a house for their wedding, but the Darrows were a large family with four sons and rumour had it Clinton's girl had insisted on a place of their own. As she came from a family of all girls, Iain could quite understand her fear of moving into the Darrow household. The Darrow boys made him look tame.

Clinton and one of his brothers were helping out with the building. They were hoping to get the roof on before the first snow, and, with five men working at it, they probably would.

The day passed as Iain hoped it might, quickly and with purpose. He applied all his energy and all his enthusiasm to every task given. He'd always enjoyed hard work and he reveled in it now, not because it gave him a focus, something to think about other than his trials, but simply because he was alive. He had always taken great joy in the simple fact he existed. Now, when not in the grip of what he called 'the dark tide', the depression that occasionally crept upon him and tried to tug him down and away from life, he faced his days with the same eagerness he always had.

As the setting sun sent fingers of dusky gold across the sky, the Darrow boys invited him stop for an ale and a story.

He declined. "Maybe later in the week, when mum believes I'm not going to drop dead at the slightest breath of wind."

They all laughed at that, his father and grandfather included, and a moment later, he turned at a hand on his shoulder. His grandfather stood there, an inscrutable look on his face.

"Our Tessa always believed you were out there somewhere, you know." His grandfather squeezed his shoulder then released it before continuing. "Said you'd come home with some wild tale about where you'd been, just as you always did." Gavin paused, his brows drawing together. "I often wondered if that letter was more cruel than kind, lad, I knew it was from you, I think we all did. But it kept her going. I'll always thank you for that."

Iain grasped his grandfather's solid arm in gratitude and they nodded to one another in understanding. Then they went home to Theresa, to their Tessa, and showed her that her son was still there, still walking and breathing, still alive and come back to her. She hugged him as fiercely that evening as she had the first and Iain submitted with good grace, kissing her cheek fondly.

That night, he did not drink any bitter tea. He slept in his own bed, Socks draped over his head (understanding his fur would not be required as a handkerchief) and listened to his grandfather breathing quietly beside him. He glanced over at the other bed and thought of Rafi. They'd shared this room until his grandmother had passed, and then Gavin had moved in here, giving his granddaughter a room of her own. It was fitting, he said, for a young woman to have her own space. It made little sense now, Iain supposed, for the two men to still sleep side by side. He didn't mind though, the young man had rarely slept alone and he liked to hear someone else breathing in the dark.

The days took on a quiet rhythm. The sun rose and the sun set and beneath it he labored beside his father and his grandfather. In the mornings he raced through the house in socked feet, laughing at his mother's quiet urgings to slow down and in the evenings he squirmed beneath her pointed questions regarding his future.

"When will you go to Highever? Should you not write to Sera?"

When he shrugged and told her he had not fully pondered his course, she changed tactics.

"Will you stay here, then, and work with your father?"

"Maybe..." _Maybe..._

And on only his third evening in Ferelden: "Finola Aiken asked after you today, Iain."

Rolling his eyes, Iain let out a familiar wail. "Muuum..."

Laughter greeted his response and his father clapped him on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper, "We've had you back three days and already she's looking towards the next generation."

One afternoon he went for an ale with the Darrow boys, as promised, and they asked where he'd been and about the scar on his face. He told them pirates had attacked the ship (which they had) and that he had killed three of them (which he had) and saved the life of the captain's son (also true). He told them his scar was a trophy, the mark of a pirate sword, and they believed him, their eyes wide and their heads bobbing. Iain grinned at the pair and did nothing to disabuse them of the notion he'd been doing nothing but adventuring these past three years and worrying his mother to an early grave. That's what young men did, after all. They bought him an extra ale and toasted his bravery and Iain drank deeply as they all swallowed his lies.

One evening his mother asked him if he still sang and he treated her to a colourful tune he'd learned in a tavern in Nevarra. He laughed as her ears turned pink and his father thumped him on the arm and his grandfather told him to mind his language. Then they all laughed and sang together some more. Though he enjoyed the evening – the music, as always, seeping inside and lifting his soul high above the rafters of the kitchen – a sour note pulled at him now and again. A voice was missing, the harmony to his melody. Rafi wasn't leaning against his side, elbowing him in the ribs when he made up ridiculous words or smiling at him as they sang the song properly, together.

The next evening he did not go for an ale or accompany his father or his grandfather home.

"I'll be home later," he told them before jerking his head towards the line of low cliffs marking the western horizon. "I want to go watch the sun set."

He hummed as he walked towards the beach, no song in particular, more a snippet of this and his favourite part of that as his mind skipped back and forth. After threading his way through the low cliffs, he crossed the dunes, feeling the sand tug at his heels in an almost forgotten fashion. Despite his time at sea, he'd not visited many beaches, the merchant vessel always put in at busy ports where docks and warehouses cluttered the coastline. He stopped and looked up at the ocean, noting the gentle swell of evening tide. The sun hovered just above the water, casting a rippled glow outwards.

Sitting down, Iain pulled his legs up and rested his chin on his knees, mimicking a posture his sister so often adopted. He continued humming softly as he watched the sun descend below the sea and then, when the light had faded enough that he could not really read, he pulled a small packet of letters from his pocket and thumbed through them. His letters to Rafi, the ones he'd written and never sent, unable to bear the thought of his words never reaching her. He did not need the light to read them, he had memorized every word. In a way, the letters had become his sister. He'd imagined her voice as she read them and he'd only written things she'd like to hear, the good, the happy and the light. His joys and his successes.

He knew he should write to her now, tell her he was alive. He should go to Highever and see her, tell her his tale. A weight held him down though, one he could not quite define. Guilt, though he knew he could not have saved her from harm, sorrow that he had been away for so long. Shame that he had not been able to keep a simple promise and fear that she would see through his lies and find what he sought most to hide.

Not yet. He wasn't quite ready yet. He needed to stay here, to stay home and rebuild himself into the Iain she remembered, the one she relied upon. He needed time.

The last crescent of the sun dipped below the water and Iain counted out the minutes for a while, measuring the time and wondering how much he would need. Then he picked himself up, stuffed his letters back into his pocket and turned towards home.


	5. Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

A moving and particulate shadow swept across the ground and Iain glanced up, shading his eyes against the early angle of the sun. The geese called out a greeting, as if acknowledging his attention and the young man smiled as he watched the large flock arrow overhead in their precise formation, the leader calling out, the flanking birds answering all the way down the line. At a signal not understood by men, the formation halted and the geese fell from the sky, a grey cloud of descending feathers that settled along the bank of the river in a cacophony of chatter and flapping and splashing.

"The heralds of winter," his father remarked quietly.

Iain turned his attention from the river in order to smile at his father. "I've not seen geese for two years." It seemed a little thing, not witnessing the seasonal progression of the magnificent birds, but it was another reminder that he'd been gone, away.

"What birds did you see at sea then?"

"Well, the gulls, of course, they follow the ship out a fair way out, terns too. There is a bird called an albatross..." he didn't know how much his father really knew about birds, except perhaps what he observed. Rafi was the reader of the family, she'd have known more than all of them, he supposed.

"There's a poem about one of those, right?"

"I think there is; Rafi would now," Iain replied and they exchanged a grin. "Elias, the captain's son? He told me about a bird he hoped to see on the other side of the world, or maybe way down south." Elias had had many such stories of things he wanted to see one day. "He called it a penguin. Funny word that." He'd shown Iain a picture of one, a sketchy thing at the corner of one of his fictional maps (those that charted the imagined and unexplored). It had been a squat bird with absurd little wings. "They can't fly, can you imagine that? A bird that can't fly? They swim." Iain felt pretty sure the bird was as fictional as the map, but he'd never said so. Everyone was entitled to their dreams.

His father grunted at the idea of a bird that couldn't fly. They had paused to watch the geese and Iain turned to look at the flock and observed the pecking order. As in any group of beings, there were the fringe dwellers, the loud and abrasive hecklers, the small groupings, the friends, and the leaders. He watched them shuffling in and about one another, some deciding to alight on the water in hopes of a fish, others grooming themselves by the bank. A few birds seemed to be doing what the humans did – they stood by and quietly observed.

"When will you go to Highever, son?"

Somewhat startled, Iain turned to look at his father again.

Callum met his gaze and continued to speak quietly. "You've been here two weeks now and you've not even written your sister." He nodded towards the birds. "Won't be long before the snow."

Iain scowled and looked away. Obviously his mother and father had been _talking_. This was what happened when he avoided his mother's questions long enough, she pestered his father with them and then his father pestered him.

In the absence of a reply, his father moved on to the observation stage of their conversation. "Do you plan to cast aside twelve years of training?" This would have been his father's own question, not one put forth by his mother.

Iain ran his fingers over the gnarled knuckles of his left hand, worrying at them slightly. "I don't know, dad." He glanced quickly at the older man before returning his attention to the geese. He couldn't tell his father he was afraid to return to Highever; Callum was a war hero, he'd not understand. "I thought, maybe I'd just stay here a while." _I feel safe here._ He shrugged in an attempt to ward of a dejected posture. "I'm sure Highever is getting along fine without me."

"Don't you want to see Sera?"

Letting go of his twisted knuckles, Iain fiddled instead with the scar on his face. "She doesn't need me to look out for her anymore, dad."

"She'll always need you, Iain." His father's face took on a familiar stern aspect. "And you made a commitment to the Couslands."

_Here we go, the honor and loyalty speech._

The force of his resentment surprised Iain. He'd not felt it before, but he did now, towards his father and the Couslands. He knew his ill feeling was misplaced, neither Callum nor Bryce Cousland had beaten him down to the ground and dragged him off to a dungeon, but it simmered below his discomfort anyway. "I had a commitment to the teyrn, and he's dead." Iain flinched at his own words and turned back towards the road.

"Iain..."

He looked over at his father and saw only sympathy on the man's face. Somehow, that just seemed worse.

"Son, it's not your fault."

"I know that." He did, reasonably he did. Emotion did not always follow reason, however.

"Did you fight well?"

Frowning, Iain shook his head and answered, "I don't know. I fought hard." He'd given everything he had.

Pursing his lips slightly, Callum asked, "Did you remember your training?"

"It saved my life, twice at least."

The questions continued: had fallen sooner than he should have, done all he could to save the teyrn and teyrna, felt shame at his capture?

Iain did not bristle at any of them, he'd asked them of himself, many, many times. He answered as honestly as he could. He'd fallen sooner than he wanted to, he'd grieved for the teyrn and teyrna and often wondered if he could have done something different, something more (though what could one man, young and half trained do against an army?), and yes, he felt shame at his capture.

"And yet you lived," his father said softly at the last.

Not sure if his father meant he should have died, either though remorse or because of his failure to make a difference, Iain could only bow his head in response, the shame he had admitted to increasing twofold and enveloping him in an all too familiar clasp.

"We can never go back, son, only forward. But we can look back and learn. Even in the last battle I fought I knew my errors as I made them, I looked back and felt remorse. The two most important things will never change though. I did my best and I'm still here. I _can_ look back because I am alive." His father's arm dropped over his shoulder and Iain looked up to see what he yearned for, approval. "You lived, Iain. You fought back and you survived, there and afterwards."

Iain didn't trust himself to speak at that point; he simply nodded and hoped his shoulders weren't noticeably trembling beneath the weight of his father's arm.

"Now you have to do the hardest part."

"What's that?" Iain asked after a moment.

"Keep going."

Snorting softly with a mixture of amusement and grim acceptance, Iain glanced at the dirt and pebbles that marked the edge of the road. _That's what I've been doing_, he answered silently. Then he looked over at the geese again and envied their freedom. In order to keep going, they just needed to lift of the ground and take to the air. They followed a course though, one they could not change. Every fall they winged their way north towards the warmer climes and every spring they flew back south, the loud trumpet of their call announcing days of warmth and sunshine. Their path never varied. They always stopped here, along the river, and they always spent a day or so on the Douglas' pond. Iain briefly wondered what a goose would do if he captured it and carried it west instead of north, if he took it out of its flock and to a different land. Would it join another gaggle? Would it become lost? Or would it return home and take its place in the precise formation once more?

"Come on, that wood won't cut itself." His father's arm tightened around his shoulder for a moment, then urged him forward before dropping, and Iain fell into step beside the older man, lifting his eyes away from the geese and towards their destination, the sawmill.


	6. The Sawmill

The Sawmill

Set into a wide curve of the river, the mill employed a large water wheel to run the saw blades. The forest had reached around it at one point, but over the years it had receded on one side, the best trees having been sacrificed in construction of the building and the mechanisms within. The forest merely thinned after that as the loggers selectively cut their way back, leaving some trees to mature properly and others to grow in to replace those they'd cut. This forest had to last beyond their lifetime and the town husbanded it as carefully as they did their livestock. Every few years the men mounted an expedition up river to the other forest of hardwood and would camp there for several weeks felling trees and trimming the trunks before binding them together and sending them back downstream towards the mill.

The sound of the saw slicing through wood filled the air well before they reached the mill and Iain winced at the high pitched note. Several men moved in and out of the large shed, carrying large logs in and planks back out to be stacked in a waiting wagon. The mill owner had a few permanent employees, but he never minded men cutting their own wood. Besides the fact it freed his men for other tasks, it was just the way they did things here and throughout the bannorn. Men worked together, regardless of their calling. If wood needed to be cut, they all cut the wood. If a house needed to be built, they all picked up a hammer. Expertise was paid for, but labour often fell to family and friends.

Another log made its way down the path of the blade and a screaming sound rent the air. Iain grit his teeth against the noise and shook his head. He'd heard the sound before, of course, on and off throughout the years, but never before had it sent such a bead of irritation along the back of his skull. He did not know how the mill workers stood it. Perhaps they were half deaf.

Callum moved directly into the mill to talk to the overseer and Iain stood outside for a moment longer. He glanced back up the road towards the geese but they were too far away and he wondered if they were still camped by the river. Despite the squawking, he supposed their company might be more peaceful right now.

"Iain!"

Turning at the sound of his name, Iain jogged inside the mill and moved as directed to the other end of a large tree trunk. All limbs had been shorn from its length and now it would be split along the middle, then again, and again, until it had been reduced to useable planks. They would do this until they filled a wagon, and then they would coax an ox to cart the load back to the Darrow house. He helped heft the trunk towards the saw and steady it as it was set into the path. The saw bit into the top end and Iain felt the tremble of it down the length of the large trunk as the wood resisted then gave into the blade. The high pitched whine began and he attempted to block out the sound by humming to himself, tunelessly against the loud whine, and slowly walked forward with his load.

Another sound reached his ears as he moved towards the workings, a rhythmic clanking, and he looked down to see the cranks and gears that worked the blade. His breath caught and a memory flashed across his eyes, obscuring his vision for a moment – a face caught in a rictus of pain. The sound of the blade dropped as the log stalled and a shout brought Iain's attention back to the mill. He'd stopped moving. Swallowing, he stepped forward and the screaming began again, and the clanking and grinding, and then a loud pop cracked through the mill as the saw hit a knot in the wood. The trunk shuddered violently in his arms and Iain stepped back with a yell.

Callum waved a hand and one of the men disengaged the saw and the mill fell quiet. "Iain?" His father was at his side. "Are you hurt?" The older man was looking at him closely, his brow furrowed with concern.

"N-no," Iain stammered. He shook his head and then tried to wave the incident off. "Just the noise, sorry, I'm not used to the noise."

His father gave him an odd look, as if to say, 'But you're the loud twin, the noisy one,' and then he patted him on the shoulder. "Stuff some cotton in your ears."

An odd sensation fluttered at the back of Iain's throat and it felt as if a band of iron had been fastened about his chest. He recognised the symptoms, this wasn't the first time a sight or sound had plunged him back into the horror of the dungeons. It hadn't happened for a while though, not in six months. He'd thought it behind him, the nightmare, except for the occasional bad dream. Wiping his hands on his pants, Iain shook his head and indicated he was ready to continue. "S'alright. Let's just get it done."

He held his breath and then hummed loudly to himself as they finished pushing the trunk through the blade. The screaming tore at his ears and the clanking triggered anxiety that knotted his insides. He felt weak and his hands trembled as he finally let go of the wood. Then they had to do it again.

As he approached the gears a second time, Iain tried not to 'remember' the sound of them turning, of people screaming and of his own joints approaching excruciating tension. He tried not to think about the sharp crack of tendons snapping and shoulders dislocating. He had watched someone die on the rack and it had quite possibly been the most awful thing he'd ever seen. The harder he tried to push the thoughts from his mind, however, the more insistent they became. The scream of the saw and the turn of the crank defeated his efforts, utterly. Sweat beaded his forehead, some of it from his exertions, most of it from the memories. The wood shuddered again and he bit his tongue. The taste of blood in his mouth was so familiar...

They finished sawing the length, put it aside, and picked up the other half. Then they approached the saw again.

Iain wanted to stop; he wanted to walk away and take a break. He did not. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to stay and worked harder to concentrate on the task at hand. The next few cuts proceeded smoothly and he grasped at the sameness of the sound, the unrelenting whine of the blade. Then the saw blade hit another knot and the wood jerked hard in his arms. When the blade caught, a sharp crack rent the air. With a cry, Iain tightened his grip on the shuddering wood and then, at a yell from his father, he stepped back as the crack traveled away from the cut and split the trunk with a loud snap. Iain thought he might vomit.

**"Crap!" **Someone yelled from up front and the mill fell quiet as they disengaged the blade again.

"I'm sorry," Iain called weakly.

Callum looked up, his brows drawn together. "Not your fault, son, blade caught the wrong side of the knot is all. We'll have to shave this part off. Why don't you go catch your breath, I'll call you when we need you again."

Iain did not have to be told twice. He stepped outside the mill and drew in great a lungful of cool, quiet air. Then another and another. He closed his eyes and Thedas tried to spin away from him, so he opened them again and let his gaze roam over the wide open paddocks in an attempt to push back the dungeon walls. After a moment of stillness he felt the need to move and so he did, pacing up and down outside the building as he worked to calm his breath and his thoughts.

The battle did not haunt him like the dungeon. Fighting Howe's men, as unexpected as it had been, made sense. Someone had attacked the castle and he'd defended it, albeit unsuccessfully. He'd picked up his blade and used it for a purpose. When the pirates had boarded _La Stella Cadente_ he had not hesitated to pick up a sword and defend the ship and her crew.

What had transpired in the dungeon made little if any sense. It had been torture, cruel and, for the most part, pointless. Iain often struggled to find a place for it in his thoughts, an appropriate spot. People were not born with a compartment in their mind labeled 'memories of senseless torture'. He'd had to invent one and as he had never had the most organized mind, the dark walls behind which he hid those memories were easily breached.

Someone called his name and he froze in place, afraid to enter the mill again. Then he huffed out two quick breaths and steeled his will. His father's words echoed in his mind. _Keep going._

He walked back into the mill and lent his strength to the work again.

It took two hours to fill the wagon and Iain tried different ways of coping. For a while he let the memories come, wondering if he could exhaust himself with them, somehow burn them from his mind. When the memories persisted, he held himself still against the jerks of the wood and he battled against the constant screaming. He tried humming again and thinking about the ship and the ocean, the wide and endless swell of water. He recalled different memories, those of his adventures abroad and those of his childhood. The earlier ones confused him, the later ones were not strong enough to combat the dark tide. Then he withdrew into himself and tried not to think at all.

On the walk back, he did not realise his father had been trying to talk to him until the man fell silent. Then he recalled the sound of his voice in its absence, the silence. He looked over at his father and saw the older man looking at him with concern.

"Sorry," Iain whispered. "I was lost in my thoughts."

His father did not answer him, which was not entirely unusual. Callum often only spoke when he felt it necessary. Instead he nodded and resumed coaxing the ox forward and the animal's soft lowing, the steady clop of its hooves and the huff of its breath gave Iain a focus at last, something peaceful, normal, pastoral.

He had no appetite when they returned home that evening and excused himself from the kitchen by explaining he had a headache.

"The... noise," he explained. "The mill."

He asked for a mug of warm water and his mother handed it across, her eyes dark with worry. He collected his cat and slipped into the darkened bedroom. Panic clawed at him as he regarded the small dim space and his hand shook as he dispensed his herbs, then he drank his bitter tea and waited for the blissful nothingness to carry him away.

Iain was not a religious man, but he did offer up a quick prayer before sleep claimed him. He prayed the herbs would work, that he would not continue to hear the screaming in his dreams.


	7. The Dark Tide, Part One

The Dark Tide, Part One

A sharp cry, repeated over and over, pulled Iain from sleep. When he opened his eyes, he knew it had been his voice. Though the sound seemed to linger, it echoed only within his mind and not the air. His throat did not ache with it; he'd not been yelling.

For a few seconds he hovered in that place between sleep and wakefulness, the vague memory of his dream clutching at him as he tried pull away. Then, blinking into the grey, predawn light, he listened for other sounds, those not a part of his nightmare; the breaths of his sleeping fellows, the press of the ocean against the hull, creaking timbers, the footsteps and low voices of the night watch. Hearing none of these, he sat up with a gasp and his hands reached or the sides of his hammock only to meet nothing and fall back to the bedclothes. One landed against warm fur and he finally breathed a sigh of relief. He'd not had a cat in the dungeon.

After a moment of disorientation, Iain remembered he was at home, in Stormgard. Oddly, this thought did not immediately soothe him. Home felt unfamiliar for a few minutes until he recalled the easy pace of his days and the time spent with family. The sound of his grandfather's quiet breathing beside him calmed him immeasurably, as did the soft, rumbling purr emanating from the cat beside him.

In the dungeon he'd listened for the whisper of breath from the man in the next cell, until that man had died. Then he'd had to strain to listen for another. It had always been a fear, beyond the pain and anguish, he might find himself alone down there. That he would be the last man left alive. He did not actually fear being the only one left to torture, he'd not have lasted long and that thought brought with it only relief. More, he feared being alone. Iain had never been alone in his life. He had a twin.

Like most men, he did not mind an hour or so to himself, a bit of a quiet time to explore his surrounds, think his occasional thoughts. Being more of a doer than a thinker, however, he did not crave solitude. He sought noise and presence. He'd loved the beach at Highever because of the sound of the wind and the ocean. He'd loved the market place for the press of people and song of varied voices. He liked the barracks and the yard because it was never quiet. And when no one was around, he made his own noise, he hummed and sang. He didn't mind Rafi's quiet. Her presence had always been enough.

It had never been truly quiet beneath Vigil's Keep, even at night. He'd not really known night from day; he guessed it mostly from the frequency of the guards' visits. The quiet hours, when the sounds of torture and screams, jeers and harsh laughter did not fill the air, were the night hours, and they were filled with different sounds; weeping, moaning, pained gasps and laboured breaths. Shifting and muttering and, when he was able, his own voice, quietly singing.

Pulling Socks into his arms, Iain shook off the memories and listened to the rumbling purr. He let it echo through him and calm the rapid flicker of his pulse. The warmth of the cat soothed as well and his breaths soon became soft sighs. Blinking into the dim light of his old bedroom, Iain worked to let go of the nightmare; he'd learned not to recall or examine his dreams. It had been vague, he remembered that much. If a dream managed to break through the heavy somnolence of the bitter tea, it was always an ethereal thing, terrorizing him with sound and sensation rather than clear imagery.

Another sound edged its way into his consciousness and Iain listened to it a moment before deciphering the soft and steady beat: rain.

The first time it had rained out on the ocean, Iain had been astounded by the sheer volume of water. Before his incarceration, rain had never struck him as so wondrous a thing - an unlimited supply of water to slake his thirst and wash the blood and grime away. Though he had no longer been dirty or maddened with thirst, still he went out onto the deck in only a shirt and shorts and laid there for an hour until he felt sodden. He drank the rainwater as it washed across his face and let it soak his clothes, reveling in the weight of wet material against his skin. The steady drum against the deck timbers and the heave and sigh of the ocean sounded like music and he sang along with it until Shy'danu pulled him back below once more, her voice softly scolding.

He caught a chill and thrashed for three days in fevered dreams, but it had been worth it, just to feel so completely wet.

Now, while the steady soft sound of the rain against the roof served to calm him, it did not entirely soothe. They could not build in the rain, but they could saw. His father would go to the mill again today. A small twitch became a shudder and Iain swallowed against the sudden fear roaring in his mind and curling in his gut. He could not go back to the mill.

Relinquishing the warmth of his bed, Iain put his feet to the cool floor and felt the oddness, as always, as the scarred skin on the sole of each foot connected with the smooth wood. The increased sensitivity of his feet, combined with the tremble of his hands and the bleakness of his thoughts, was enough to warn him that this would be one of _those_days. The dark tide tugged at him and he'd fight it through the hours, exhaustively. He'd not be able to talk or listen for the dialogue within, the battle against self. He would drop things and break things; he would start at loud noises and simple touches.

The first time the bleakness and despair enveloped him he'd fought with the cook's son, Reyes. The kitchen hand treated him as an underling and when he dropped something, Reyes cuffed him, knocking him back against a stout pillar. Iain hurled himself at the larger man, defiance singing in his blood. He had no shackles at his ankles and wrists; he had no reason not to defend himself. In the five minutes they traded blows they managed to destroy the crews' breakfast. When the cook, George, returned, he pulled them apart only to throw them back together again, their heads connecting with a sound crack. Iain woke up in the infirmary only to find he'd been spared twenty lashes – that time. His light treatment did not endear him to Reyes. The next time he felt the pull of the dark tide he'd withdrawn. He went to the hold of the ship, the small space he'd curled up in when he first climbed aboard, and retreated.

Sometimes it lasted hours, more rarely days. He had no way to tell, he merely stumbled through until he found the end.

Pushing himself to his feet, wincing at the soreness of his limbs, the residual ache in his left hand, Iain went into the dark kitchen. Socks pawed at the door and he cracked it open to let the cat out and then followed his friend, stepping into the rain. He scanned the yard, looking for a retreat. He could see little through the grey sheets of water but dark shapes and shadows. He looked towards the east and guessed dawn might be about an hour away. Where could he hide?

"Iain?"

Iain jumped, a startled cry falling from his lips. His feet landed in mud and he slipped and might have fallen if his grandfather had not caught him in a strong grip.

"Come inside, lad. Wait, stand there..." Gavin went to get him a rag and Iain stood there, as instructed, shivering in the draught between the warmth of the kitchen and the cold rain outside. Looking down, he saw that his pants were wet and clinging to his legs and he'd forgotten to put on a shirt. His scars stood out against his cold skin, all of them. His grandfather must have seen them.

Panic took a swift hold and Iain ran from the doorway, tracking mud across the kitchen floor. He slid and collided with a doorframe before pulling himself around it, absently rubbing his shoulder. When he reached his room he grabbed a shirt from the floor and stuck his arms into it and pulled it roughly over his head. In his haste, he tugged too hard and felt rather than heard the material give along one seam. His shirts were somewhat weathered, it had happened before.

"What in...?"

"Fuck!" As he spun around his legs caught the edge of the bed and Iain sat heavily, his wet pants immediately soaking the sheets and blankets beneath him.

His grandfather's eyes were wide with shock – either at his language or the fact he'd run through the house with muddied feet and proceeded to sit on a clean bed, his pants wet and filthy. The old man stepped into the room and offered him the towel.

"They teach you to speak like that at sea?" he asked gruffly.

"No, sorry, grandpa." Iain felt somewhat contrite, but not fully. It was hard to feel anything properly beneath the swirl of panic and despair. He bent to wipe the mud from his feet, a somewhat futile gesture given the state of his bed. He closed his eyes a moment, imagining his mother's displeasure; she'd not be able to wash on a rainy day. Feeling like a resentful child, one who did not want to be scolded, Iain opened his eyes to scowl at his feet and shifted so that he couldn't see his grandfather standing just off to the side. He pretended the old man wasn't there.

Gavin spoke anyway, dispelling the weak illusion. "Quite the collection of scars you got there."

Iain flinched and turned a little further, almost curling into himself. He grunted a soft, wordless response. He did not want to talk about the marks decorating his skin. The seam across his ribs, a battle wound, would be alright, but not the myriad smaller scars or the deliberate marks, the brands. Not the reminders of pain and himself screaming (and he'd tried not to... he'd tried so hard), not the shame of having to carry the brand of the Howe family imprinted in his skin so many times.

After a few moments of very deliberate silence, he heard Gavin leave the room and he stood up, pulled off his pants, leaving them in a wet heap on the floor, and reached for a dry pair. He dragged the material over his wet legs then pulled his half clean feet into the bed, tugged the covers over his head and curled into as small a shape as his large frame could manage. He couldn't hide outside in the rain and he could not spend the day in the kitchen beneath the watchful eye of his mother. He would stay here, in the dark cave of his bed clothes.

He heard someone come into the room, hover for a few minutes, and leave again. When he peeked out from the covers, he saw a mug of warm water sitting beside the bed. He could retreat further... he took the gesture as his grandfather's permission to do so. Iain found his small packet of bitter herbs and measured them out. He drank his tea and then he curled back into his damp bed. Soon enough, he drifted away.


	8. The Dark Tide, Part Two

The Dark Tide, Part Two

The day passed oddly. He'd not used the herbs to push the bleakness away before. Shy'danu had never suggested it and the thought had never occurred. He usually waited it out instead. This time, however, he cheated the hours with sleep, the deep and dreamless kind. He surfaced once or twice, but always found it easier to roll over and give in again rather than actually get up. When he finally woke up properly he smelled food. It did not entice his belly, he rarely ate when depressed, but it told him the hour of the day better than the grey light outside the small, shuttered window.

Iain rolled out of bed, dislodging the heavy lump at his side, Socks, and turned to look at the disarray behind him. The mud had dried leaving the sheets dirty and wrinkled. The bed clothes looked twisted, yet somehow still inviting. Only the press of his bladder deterred him from crawling back within the warm curl of blankets. As he reached for his socks, Iain noted his clothes had been folded, his belongings tidied. His mother had been in here while he slept. Likely she had sat there watching him as she had done throughout their childhood when either he or Rafi had been sick. The thought both comforted and irritated.

He had to pass through the kitchen and as his shadow fell through the doorway, three faces looked up from the table. The crew of _La Stella Cadente_ had never regarded him with that particular mixture of fondness, sympathy and concern. One might occasionally lift his chin and ask if he was alive. One might clasp his shoulder and encourage him to stay the course. One might ignore his pain completely because he had his own.

Without talking, he went to relieve himself and then steeled his nerve to walk back into the kitchen. Tempting as it was to pass back through and find his bed, Iain resolved to try and connect. He could not spend days wallowing in bottomless and unreasonable sadness. Not now. He was supposed to be home.

"How are you feeling?" his mother asked, as if he'd merely spent the day sleeping off an illness.

Iain decided to play along. "Alright." A vague answer. He sat and she leaned over to feel at his forehead. He tried not to flinch at her touch.

"Eat up, lad. Rain's passed; we'll be back at the house tomorrow." His father passed over a plate and Iain looked at it dispassionately.

"All done at the mill, then, Callum?"

"Aye."

The conversation picked up around him. As he stared at the food, Iain tried to think of something to say, of a way to enter the chatter. He could not. He wanted to be a part of the warmth that connected these people, feel the reassurance of their acceptance. He could not. Detachment rose between him and them like an impossible wall, one he could never climb, and sadness dragged him under the sound of their voices, muffling his ears.

After a while he got up and left. In the wake of the odd silence that followed him from the kitchen he felt their surprise and concern. He did not look back to see the evidence of it in their faces. He crawled back into his bed, pulled the blankets over his head and drifted.

The next time he became aware, the room lay quiet and dark around him but he could hear voices.

"You shouldn't have asked!" His mother's voice, with a slightly hysterical note.

"If I hadn't, you would have, Tessa." His father's voice, more reserved, but with a hint of exasperation.

"About his plans, yes, but not the battle. You never wanted to talk about the war, Cal, I remember that."

A moment of silence followed this, then his father's deep voice sounded again, this time tinged with regret. "I should have, sooner. I thought it would help..."

"It's not the battle that haunts him." A third voice. His grandfather.

Despite himself, Iain strained to hear what the old man would say next.

His mother spoke instead. "The ship then?" She sounded uncertain. "He speaks so fondly of the crew..."

Iain remembered another overheard conversation, one from the ship, between Shy and Captain Idowu.

"He was down there for months, not weeks, months," Shy had whispered. "That is why his hand is so badly set." Her voice caught and when she spoke again her words were hesitant. "I have to break the bones again, if there is to be any hope of him using it. Will you hold him still?"

Shy had asked him earlier, but she'd not done it then and there, she had drugged him first in an attempt to deaden the pain. He'd not reacted well to pain in those first weeks; it sent him into panicked rages. He'd not reacted well then either, to them breaking his hand again.

Iain massaged the prominent knuckles and the odd crook of the bones, he flexed the fingers, feeling the familiar stiffness and tightening of tendons that inhibited the full range of movement.

His grandfather continued. "Not the ship, Howe's dungeon. I think he was down there longer than he lets on."

A sob drifted out, then another. The third sounded choked and quiet, and Iain knew his father had pulled his mother into his arms. Their collective sadness pervaded the air, cloying and intense. It deepened his own sorrow. Not wanting to hear anymore, he pulled the pillow over his head and hummed until he drifted again, back into the dark well of sleep.

Sometime in the night he woke again and he lay blinking into the darkness. Beside him, his grandfather breathed, over his head, Socks stretched. Iain stared at nothing for a while, wondering why he was awake. He thought about the conversation he had overheard and sadness plucked at him. Telling them what had happened in the dungeon would only invite them to share his horror; it would not relieve him of it. He could not bear the idea of his mother having that knowledge in her head. He would strive to pull free of this darkness for her, so that he did not have to look at him with such worry. He fell asleep with that thought in the forefront of his mind.

Four haunted faces greeted the following dawn, his and theirs. Iain felt the questions in their eyes, as if the words themselves crawled along his skin. None of them reached to touch him though he could feel they all wanted to. They were afraid of him, of breaking him.

"I feel better today," he announced quietly.

He did, sort of. He could feel the tide receding. His resolve of the night before appeared to be working. If he kept himself occupied today, quiet, but busy, it would roll back completely.

Relief washed the other three faces in the room and his mother, father and grandfather seemed to jostle amongst themselves as if deciding which one would be the first to touch him. Theresa broke ranks first and hugged him and Iain let himself be hugged.

He couldn't labour as hard that day as he wanted to. He'd not really eaten for two days and the excessive sleep left him too disoriented for delicate work. He hammered for a while, as directed by his father. When he faltered, his grandfather set him smaller tasks, the fetching and carrying he'd done as a child. He held the end of something steady, something that didn't need to be held. He rearranged wood that did not need to be rearranged. He collected the sandwiches at lunch and handed them out. Despite the bare utility of his tasks he felt useful.

Just after the sun had passed its zenith, his father called him over. "How are you doing, son?"

"Alright." The sadness had receded, leaving him wearied but oddly content.

"I saw you packed your sketchbook this morning."

Iain regarded his father curiously. He had packed his drawing things. He'd intended to go down to the beach after work, to draw. He did not want to spend the evening sitting beneath the worried scrutiny of his family, he wanted to further restore himself. He wondered why his father had mentioned the sketchbook. As a child, he'd been encouraged in his drawings, as Rafi had been with her hobbies. It seemed an odd time to talk about it now, though.

When he didn't answer right away, his father frowned and Iain cleared his throat. "I did. I thought I'd go to the beach, later."

"Would you like to go now?" His father sounded so hesitant, so gentle.

"No," Iain answered, surprising both himself and the older man. Suddenly, he didn't want to go, he didn't want to be alone. He wanted to stay and be with people. With his father and his grandfather. He needed to hear their voices and feel their presence. "Would you mind if I stayed, and drew here?"

His father smiled. "Not at all."

So he stayed. He sat on the pile of timber he'd restacked and he sketched the house. Iain usually preferred to draw people, but sometimes other subjects spoke to him – birds, the ocean, the ship. He'd drawn a lot of _La Stella Cadente_, he'd been fascinated by the angles and curves of the deck, the shape of the sails and the shadows cast by the wheel, masts and rails. Now he sketched the Darrow house, but instead of drawing exactly what he saw, he drew it as it would look when finished. He would give it to Clinton as a wedding present, he decided.

The drawing took him the rest of the afternoon and he'd not quite finished it when the men packed up. Following his father and grandfather home, he participated in their easy conversation. They did not remark upon his improved mood, they simply allowed him to be a part of their kinship. At dinner, he ate ravenously, his mother remarking more than once he should slow down or risk making himself sick. The exasperated tone in her voice made him smile, she sounded so normal and it made him feel normal, again. He shared a whiskey with the men after dinner and, when his turn arrived, he told a story about the market place in Kont-arr where he'd first earned a coin for one of his sketches.

Iain felt a part of his family again and it was a relief. Always he worried that one day the dark tide would carry him too far away, drag him down too deeply, and that he'd not find his way back. This time it had not.

If his mother was surprised by his rough hug that night, she said nothing. She merely hugged him fondly in return. "Sleep well," she murmured softly.

He did sleep well, his softly furred companion held close in his arms. He knew, however, as he drifted off, that his grandfather would approach him again, regarding his scars and the dungeon. It would only be a matter of time.


	9. Rough Manners

Rough Manners

The days began to pass effortlessly once more. The sun rose and the sun set and Iain laboured beneath it, beside his father and his grandfather.

No one mentioned his day in bed. It faded into memory, as it always had before, on the ship. If he stayed with his family long enough, they'd see him retreat again, he knew that. He wondered if they would come to accept it as he did, as the crew of _La Stella Cadente_ had. It had become his quirk. No one disturbed George when he baked a particular cake on a particular day of the year. No one knocked on the first mate's door when they heard him singing a certain song. No one mentioned the loss of the captain's wife. And no one talked about Iain's occasional retreat to the hold. So long as they all reemerged and the ship continued to float, they all let one another be.

He knew his mother judged him recovered when she began pestering him with questions again.

"Have you written to Sera?"

"Yes, mum." It wasn't really a lie. He had written a letter, he'd not mailed it. He did not tell her that the letter had joined the others in the small packet he carried. It had taken him the better part of an afternoon to write the short note, then he'd been unable to send it. He did not know why. He had told his father that Rafi didn't need him anymore and his father had insisted that she would. On some level, Iain realised he feared both these outcomes. If his twin no longer needed him, what use was he? If she still required his strength of character, she might find him lacking. To hear her story, to know what she'd seen, he honestly didn't know if he could listen and remain steady for her, some days it took all of his energy just to be himself.

Silence had befallen the kitchen and Iain looked up from rubbing the knuckles of his left hand to see his mother giving him the look.

"What?"

"Why didn't you tell me you'd written? I could have sent a note too."

Iain sighed. He stood up and wrapped his arms around his mother. "I'll write again after the festival and you can put in a note, alright?"

"You're a good lad."

_Sometimes I am._ Iain gave his mother a cheeky grin and strode out of the door and into the yard.

The late afternoon sun had a little warmth to it and he turned his face towards the sky and closed his eyes. He let the orange light flicker behind his eyelids for a while and smiled as he felt a weight against his leg. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a tangle of wool and looked down so he could brush the end of it over Socks' nose. The cat bit at the wool and Iain yanked it away. Before long he started running back and forth across the yard, dragging the length of wool behind him. Socks gave chase and Iain laughed and twitched the wool back and forth.

"Callum and I thought we might visit the tavern tonight. You up for joining us?"

Iain looked up to see his grandfather leaning against the house, his arms crossed. He'd managed to avoid being alone with Gavin for any extended period of time, fearing any questions the old man might put to him. They wouldn't get much of a chance to chat over the noise of the tavern.

Gavin and Callum visited the tavern twice a month; on the second week, Theresa entertained the local knitting circle and on the fourth week the ladies played cards. Then men had tried to join on occasion, but men played cards differently to women. Men bet more, they swore more and they drank more. So they might as well do it at the tavern.

Iain nodded his assent and went to fetch his jacket.

Clinton and Jim Darrow were already there. Some men drank every night out of habit, he supposed, and sometimes that habit extended through the dinner hour. Claire Darrow had so many men living under her roof she probably didn't notice the absence of one or two every now and then.

After sharing an ale with his father and grandfather, the polite round, Iain went to sit with the younger men. They were talking about women and the upcoming Cladan festival. Both were entertaining subjects. Iain sat down with his second ale.

"Sybil's sister said Finola has her eye on you, Iain. She's making a new dress for the festival," Jim said.

Hastily swallowing his ale, so that he might not choke, Iain prepared dash Finola's hopes.

"I heard you'd already taken her out," Clinton put in.

Iain put his mug down with an exasperated sigh. This was how people ended up married in small towns. The village supposed they were together and, to avoid rumour and suspicion, they hooked up.

"I've not taken her out."

"You should, she's a looker," Jim countered.

Finola Aiken did have a pretty face. Long, blonde hair complimented her warm brown eyes and the freckles dusted across her nose. Iain had always thought her attractive; he might have even professed a crush on her in his younger days. He'd not known the danger of village gossip back then, or that his mother would remember his words. And now that Finola become a woman, she looked like one. She had quite the figure. If he had a ship waiting at harbour, he'd not hesitate to _take her out._

To Jim, he said, "I don't want to build a house in the spring; I'm not touching Finola Aiken."

Clinton laughed and lifted his mug. "Eh, it's not so bad. Just think, my bed will be warm every night, come the spring." He winked and drained his ale.

Iain turned to signal a barmaid for another round and he caught sight of a young woman standing alone towards the rear of the tavern. She had dark hair, the colour of chestnut, and it fell in long, loose curls to her waist. Her hair caught his attention first as women usually braided such long hair rather than wear it loose. She had an exotic face; large, dark eyes and a very red mouth.

"Who...?"

"_That_ is Martin's new girl, you don't want to be caught looking at her."

A grin stretched across Iain's face and he nodded slowly, willing the woman to look in his direction. She did not, but a barmaid did and he ordered more ale. By shuffling his chair slightly sideways, Iain managed to keep an eye on Martin's girl. She had caught the eye of several other men, despite the company of Martin, a rough looking man he did not know. Idly, he wondered if Martin would let others dance with his new girl at the festival. Probably not.

The Darrows caught him in conversation for another round and, when their ales were refreshed for a fourth time, Iain could feel the languor of the alcohol, the lightness of his thought and limb. He usually didn't drink so much; he'd never been a big drinker, more an occasional one. He turned to check on the young lady and her rough companion and noted their situation had changed. Martin had acquired grabby hands and his girl looked a little uncomfortable. Iain narrowed his eyes.

Iain had always felt protective, or as Rafi inferred, overly protective, towards the fairer sex. In part, due to his attachment to his twin and, somewhat, due to his training as a squire. Markham might have been the one who always acted the gentleman, but Iain usually minded his manners. He liked to charm and tease, but he'd never take advantage. The guards in Howe's dungeon had not been gentlemen. They had done atrocious things to the female captives and, more often than not, Iain had been a witness. Several of his scars were punishment for interfering. When he'd stopped protesting or trying to save them, guilt punished him instead. It had been hard for him to touch a woman after he regained his freedom.

Now he found himself quick to anger when he perceived any man trying to take advantage of a woman. Not a bad trait, until his fists found their way into the situation.

"They look right cozy, eh?"

Looking up from the amber swirl of his ale, Iain squinted at Clinton. The elder Darrow nodded towards the rear corner of the tavern and Iain followed his gaze to see Martin and his companion locked in a somewhat passionate embrace. He smirked at the pair, figuring she'd decided she liked Martin's hands on her dress after all, and turned back to his ale. He let out a long, steady breath, willing the edginess he felt to ease. The girl's look earlier, her discomfort, played over and over in his mind. _Not my business,_ he told himself. He had to keep his head. This was Stormgard, he lived here, and Angus was not on hand to extract him from a fight.

"Oh, that's not right..."

Iain turned around again and saw the young woman actively trying to push Martin off her. Clinton looked perturbed and Iain felt a surge of kinship with his fellow. While the Darrow boys might be troublesome and mischief makers, they were good to their mother and their sister, and Clinton was building a house for his girl; he had a gentle nature beneath his sometimes rough manners.

"C'mon, Iain, you're supposed to be a gentleman of some sort, right? Let's go set him straight," Clinton said, his words slightly slurred.

An invitation Iain could not and did not want to refuse. He felt both the ale and his edginess swirl together and the warmth of them rise towards his head. He rose with Clinton and the pair moved towards the back of the tavern.

They'd not realised Martin man had friends.

Afterwards, Iain couldn't quite remember the point at which he'd snapped. It had probably been when Martin had roughly grabbed at the young woman's breast (or that part of her dress) and pronounced her 'his'. Fists flew and punches landed. He heard yelling, his voice and Clinton's, and then Jim shouted and someone screamed. Knuckles grazed his temple and Iain saw stars. Retaining his feet, he aimed for his assailant's jaw and heard a sharp crack. His gut curdled at the sound and he pushed aside the sick feeling and followed up with another punch. A blow to the kidneys left him breathless and Iain doubled over, gasping for air and trying to hold back the contents of his stomach. A haze seemed to have fallen over the room, obscuring his sight and muffling the sounds, and Iain threw himself back into the press of bodies, more than anger fueling his fists.

When someone grabbed roughly at his shoulder, he yelled and pushed them off. Two large hands slipped beneath his arms and pulled him away from the fight and Iain struggled against their hold. "Fuck off," he yelled, trying to get back into the fray.

A hand cuffed the side of his face, none to gently, and Iain turned to attack his fresh target. Callum stood there, his face a mask of hurt surprise.

"Here, give him to me, Callum." His grandfather stepped in and grabbed Iain roughly by the arm. "We're leaving, lad. All of us. _Now._"

Sobriety hit Iain like a stinging slap as he blinked at the two men, his family. He'd forgotten where he was, he'd forgotten he was in Stormgard.

No one talked on the walk through town. Silence hung thick and heavy between the trio, tinged with the emotion of all three; Iain's residual anger, Callum's shock and disappointment, and Gavin's displeasure. The house sat dark and quiet, his mother already in bed. Iain hesitated to step inside. He felt wrong. Like an outsider. He felt disconnected from his family in a new way, as if he'd become a person they did not know anymore. His father went inside without a word, taking the cloud of anger, shock and disappointment with him, and Iain slumped against the wall, overwhelmed with remorse. His father had never looked at him like that before, never. It hurt more than the various bruises he'd acquired from the fight.

A cool cloth pressed against his temple and he brushed it away.

"Go away," he muttered, not willing to be tended. He wanted to wallow in his misery, use this new separateness as an excuse to pack it all up and find his way back to the docks.

"You can apologise in the morning," his grandfather said.

Iain shrugged.

"He was young once too, Iain." A small note of dry humour crept into the old man's voice. "Tessa will remind him of that."

Turning to face his grandfather, Iain made a small attempt to explain. "It was the girl, I didn't like the way he touched her."

Gavin studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "We'll talk in the morning, lad. When your head is clearer."


	10. The Drum

The Drum

Gavin and Iain had their talk in the middle of the night.

Iain woke to someone shaking his shoulder roughly. He'd felt the movement and confused it with the roll of the ship in rough weather. When someone called his name, "Iain," the quiet and familiar voice cut through the scream of the wind, which he'd just realised didn't sound like wind at all, but voices...

His eyes opened and he started, sitting up with a wordless cry. The dream refused to let go for a moment and he flinched and twisted before the memory of fists and batons connecting with his body, two or three at a time.

"Iain." A pair of cool hands cupped his cheeks. "It's alright, lad. Look at me."

Reaching up, Iain plucked at the fingers on his cheeks and jerked his head out of their hold. He flew backwards and his head connected with the wall behind him with a soft thump. Blinking, he looked at the face looming over him and prepared to defend himself again.

The man spoke again. "Iain, stop, please."

Iain finally recognised his grandfather's voice and drew in a shaky breath. "Grandpa?"

The old man sat back down on the edge of the bed and let out a heavy sigh. "Maker's breath, lad." He shook his head slowly, sadly. "Where were you?"

In the dungeon...

Always, it was the dungeon. Iain looked away, his pulse erratic and panic still confusing his thoughts. He saw his wrist and tugged at shirt sleeve before checking his pajamas and sheets hadn't slipped of his hips or his ribs...

"I've seen them, you don't need to cover them up."

"Yes, I do," Iain murmured. "I don't like to look at them." Not at night, not after a dream. During the day the marks didn't bother him so much, they were just there. At night, they itched and burned.

A soft, throaty trill announced Socks' arrival and Iain scooped up his cat and fussed over him for a minute while he waited for his heart beat to slow down and the dream to fade.

After allowing him that moment to gather himself, his grandfather said quietly, "I only woke you this time because I feared you might wake your parents. Do you... want to talk about it?"

"This time?" Iain glanced up at his grandfather, brows drawn together in confusion. He'd only had one other dream since being here and the old man seemed to have slept through that.

In the dim light of the small lamp in the corner, Iain could just make out Gavin's face. His grandfather looked old, and sad and concerned. After taking in a deep breath and letting it out Gavin looked at the wall that faced the other side of the house, towards the other bedrooms. "Callum used to have nightmares," he said, lifting his chin towards the wall and the distant bedroom where his parents lay sleeping. "After the war. Woke the whole house up a couple of times with his yelling."

Iain felt his mouth open in surprise.

Gavin turned back to look at him. "He used to get in fights too. Often for the very same reason." His grandfather reached out and patted the side of his head, his blonde curls. "For all that you look like your mother, Iain, you are your father's boy, through and through. It's why he holds you to such a high standard you know. Just as he does himself."

"The dreams," Iain began, a question in his tone. "Did he... tell you about them?"

"About as much as you are probably going to say," Gavin answered, one brow raised sardonically.

"I don't dream often, not anymore."

"Often enough, lad. This is not the first time you've woke me up."

Frowning, Iain asked, "How many..."

"Twice a week since you've been back, or thereabouts. You don't always yell, sometimes you throw things, a couple of times you've talked in your sleep, hummed something. You toss and turn." The old man gripped his arm. "I've seen the marks, lad, when I put your blankets back on and pick your pillow up. I saw them that night you stood in the rain. What are they, burns?"

Iain flinched and looked away from his grandfather's face. The languor of sleep had left him fully now and he felt aware and awake. Oddly, he did not feel as distressed as he might, being confronted by his grandfather. He felt almost relieved. He loved his grandfather, he trusted him, and in this situation, the old man had the advantage of being one step removed. Gavin was not his father or his twin. He wasn't so close that the idea of revealing secrets felt suffocating.

Reaching down, Iain pulled the sleeve away from his right wrist and held out his arm. "It's a brand," he explained quietly. "A bear's head." He tensed as his grandfather's thumb passed over the ridge of scar tissue along the lower edge of the deep mark. "I... I have nine of them."

The old man hissed and his face pinched in anger. He gripped Iain's wrist. "Oh, Iain..." and then his grandfather did something Iain had never before witnessed. He swore. "That fucking bastard, Howe..."

He sounded furious and Iain felt the anger sweep through him again, and the accompanying sense of futility that had always followed with it, in the dungeon and afterwards, when he had no appropriate target for his rage.

"I'm alright, grandpa." Iain felt as if he needed to reassure the old man suddenly, to calm the rage he knew would be utterly useless now.

Gavin let go of his wrists and gripped both of his shoulders instead. "Yes, you are, lad. Though Maker knows how."

Iain remembered the conversation he'd had with his father, the day they went to the mill. "It's like dad says, I kept going. I didn't give up." He'd wanted to, sometimes...

"How long were you down there?"

Iain hesitated here, not wanting to upset his grandfather again. He studied the lined face and saw hints of himself, his mother and his sister. Gavin had not had an easy life. He and Catriona had lost their son, Aaron, in the war. Iain had heard tales of the uncle he'd never met, his mother's brother, his father's brother-in-arms and firm friend. When Callum returned from the battle of White River, without Aaron, life had still been hard for all of them. Ten years passed before he and Theresa managed to conceive. Iain had heard those stories too, of how the village gossiped and his mother cried and his father prayed for ten long years.

They kept going, all four of them, and then it happened and Theresa had her children at last; twins, he and his sister. The following years had been full of more hard work and sacrifice for his family, though. They had put all of their resources into sending Iain and Serafina to Highever properly equipped and they had kept them clothed and armoured and armed throughout the years, with the very best they could afford.

Compared to all of that, six months of horror felt like a small sacrifice.

His grandfather studied him in return and at the point where the old man looked ready to withdraw his question, Iain spoke up.

"Six months," he said. "Don't tell dad, please. Or mum. She'd..."

"I know, lad, I know." Gavin winced and drew in a breath. "Andraste's ass, I can't imagine..."

_No, you can't._

"Thank the Maker Catriona passed before the Blight."

"Aye," Iain agreed softly. His grandmother had been a strong woman, Serafina resembled her in more than looks, but after losing a son, to have thought both grandchildren gone too...

Gavin took a deep breath then, and drew his shoulders back. He looked Iain square in the eye. "From the beginning then..."

"No, grandpa..." Maker, it was so tempting to let it all out, to share it, to unburden himself. It was too much though, one person shouldn't... a shudder passed through his shoulders and Iain let out a choked breath.

"Trust me, lad. These old ears have heard tales..."

And so Iain told him everything. Gavin grimaced and paced and swore. He hugged his grandson fiercely and, more than once, he threatened death upon a dead man. At the end, his grandfather held him close and though Iain could feel the tremble in the old man's shoulders, he could also feel the strength of a man who had held his family together for decades. A man who lived defiantly.

The sun peeked through the shutters and dawn stole over the household, his mother rising to make breakfast, his father talking quietly to her as she worked. Iain and Gavin stepped into the kitchen, still awake and weary with the hours spent talking. Theresa looked at the bruise on the side of her son's face and frowned before glancing at her husband. Iain squared his shoulders and stepped before his father.

"Dad, I'm sorry. I'll mind my manners in future."

A second of silence greeted his apology before Callum answered in gruff tone. "See that you do, son."

Exhausted as he was, from the evening, the dreams and the conversation with his grandfather, Iain took the brusque response as his due and stepped back. A hand landed on his shoulder.

"I know you meant well, Iain. But..."

"I know, dad, I... he..." Iain shook his head. "I can't believe I swore at you like that," he said suddenly, looking up. "That's the worst part. I didn't know it was you, but that's no excuse."

"No, it's not."

"I won't do it again."

"Ah, son..."

"I'll try not to," Iain amended.

An amused grunt greeted his comment and they sat to breakfast. Halfway through the meal, Gavin said, "Iain and I have some business to take care of today, Callum. We'll see you this evening."

Callum looked from one to the other and then at his wife. Theresa shrugged, her expression clearly saying, 'I have as little idea what they're up to as you.'

Iain did not hear his father leave, he'd fallen asleep on the couch set along the kitchen window. When he woke up, the sun had risen towards midday and the house lay quiet around him. Then his grandfather appeared at his side, a bulging satchel in each hand. He handed the larger to Iain.

"Don't peek inside until we're there."

_There?_

Iain set the pack down and went to wash his face and pull on some proper pants and boots. He collected a sweater and jacket and rejoined his grandfather in the kitchen.

"Let's go, lad."

"Where are we doing?"

"The beach."

They walked the forty minutes or so to the low cliffs and rolling dunes and made their way towards the water. They sat and Gavin pulled out some sandwiches. Iain eyed the bulky satchel he'd been carrying, an idea of what lay within forming in his head. The pack had been suspiciously light. After they finished eating, Gavin nodded towards it.

"You can open it now."

Iain unfastened the straps and pulled back the heavy canvas flap. He saw the top curve of a small, flat drum and his breath caught.

"Well, don't just stare at it, pull it out, boy, tune it up."

Gingerly, Iain pulled the circle of wood, twine and hide out of the satchel and set it across his lap. He stroked the stretched surface of the drum with his gnarled left hand and then reached to tug at the rope. His fingers were too stiff and he flexed them a little, then laid his sore hand on top of the drum and used his right hand instead. He plucked at the twisted cord here and there, adjusting the tension. He rapped at the hide, listening to the note, then adjusted the tension again. He repeated this exercise a few times until the drum sounded just as he liked. Then he reached into the satchel for the drum sticks and fine tuned his instrument.

Gavin pulled out his recorder and blew a few notes, then started a song.

Iain joined in, hesitantly at first, a little awkwardly with his left hand. He couldn't grip the stick properly and so gave it up and just used his fingers and palms, as he often did anyway. They played together, one song blending into the next, neither of them singing, both of them simply enjoying the music and the rhythm.

Gavin couldn't sing anyway, he needed his breath for the flute. Iain couldn't have sung if he wanted to, he had no breath for it beneath his tears. He put his anger and his pain into his drumming and Gavin seemed to know which he needed most, and guided the music from tone to tone and mood to mood. Iain became one with the beat and floated on the rhythm, he left the beach and the dungeon behind. He found something he'd been missing for over two years, something he'd needed, desperately. A safe retreat that was all his, replete with movement and noise and a beat that resounded through him, full of life.


	11. Cladan

Cladan

Finola Aiken was determined to have Iain notice her dress, newly made or not. She hovered by the market stall closest to the edge of town and Iain had to greet her or risk the ire of both his mother and the young lady in the bright green dress.

"Oh, will you look at Finola's dress, isn't she the prettiest thing?"

Iain glanced at his mother, prepared to shrug and say, 's'alright', even though he actually agreed that, wow, she really could be about the prettiest thing he'd seen with her blonde hair pulled back, her cheeks flushed in the cool crisp air and the bright colour of her dress festive and warm. He'd be teasing and Theresa would know it, but he wanted clarify his intentions. Iain really did not want to build a house in the spring. Any interest in Finola Aiken, beyond a dance – because she did look quite pretty and he did not have a cruel heart – would be taken as courtship. That's how it worked in a village as small as Stormgard.

"Iain!" Finola chose that moment to notice the approach of the MacKinnon family and gushed, yes gushed, and stuck her hand out, expecting him to take it.

After a moment's hesitation, in which he could feel his mother's mood edging from pleased to peeved, Iain took the young lady's hand, briefly. "Hello, Finola." He paused, expecting an elbow to nudge him in the ribs and felt again the absence of his sister. _Be nice!_ "You look very pretty."

She beamed. Iain couldn't help but smile in return. He became aware that his father and his grandfather and his mother were all watching them intently. This would not do. He nodded his head towards Finola. "I'll see you later, perhaps. Will you save me a dance?" he asked with a warm smile.

The combination of dismissal and promise had the desired effect. His mother would be satisfied with his manners, Finola would be satisfied with the idea of dancing with him later and the men folk were eager to get moving. They moved on.

Iain enjoyed the afternoon. He spent it in the company of this family. In turns he wandered the stalls first with his mother and later with the men. He and Theresa admired such things as wool, fabric, innovative cooking implements and here, his mother arched her brows in surprise as he praised the merits of a certain pie dish, and then the pair lost themselves at the booksellers where they discovered a fat sheaf of sheet music.

Pulling one from the stack, Iain hummed a few bars, then stopped as his mother leaned against his side. He looked over at her in apology. "Sorry."

"No! You know I love to hear you sing. Makes you sound happy."

He grinned at his mother and, looking back at the sheet, quietly sang a little of it for her. Her finger touched the page now and again when he missed a note or mixed up the pace. It had been a while since he'd sung from a sheet of music and her gestures took him back to his childhood. Theresa had been the one to teach him how to read music and how to more than just bellow when he sang.

They bought the song (and several other sheets) and moved on to meet the men for a small break where they shared an ale and something to eat. Then he followed his grandfather to the other end of the festival market.

"I want you to meet a friend of mine, Iain, I think you'll like his work."

The three men approached a large wagon and Iain stopped to admire the furniture arrayed before it. A pair of chairs caught his attention first. The backs were not laddered in the traditional manner or delicately spoked as he'd seen in Orlais and Antiva. Instead, they comprised a solid piece of wood, the colour of honey and polished to a warm shine. More than the beauty of the wood caught his eye, and he instantly understood what his grandfather wanted to show him. The wooden panels were intricately carved. The top, where the wood curved, resembled the fan of a clam shell and the theme had been carried throughout, waved lines following the sides down, swirls at the bottom and in the centre of each, a ship, viewed from the stern, preparing to sail out of the chair under a full wind.

Iain knelt before one of the chairs and traced the lines with his finger. He'd never seen work so fine. Idly, he wondered if he might ever transfer his talent for drawing into such a skill. His grandfather sometimes worked like this, etching simple carvings into smaller objects. The old man usually preferred to find wood with a pattern and personality of its own, though, and bring the natural characteristics to life. An equal talent, in Iain's opinion.

Looking up over his shoulder, he grinned at his grandfather. "They are something else."

Gavin returned his grin and introduced him to the artisan, another elderly man whose eyes sparkled with humour and wit. Iain shook his hand and allowed the craftsman to give him a tour of his treasures. He complimented everything he saw, but felt that the two chairs were the very best examples of his work. Maybe because they reminded him so much of the sea. A wistfulness tugged at him whenever he looked at them. He could probably afford to buy them with the gold Captain Idowu had given him, but what would he do with a pair of chairs? Dream of the ocean? A wry smile hovered about his mouth as they walked back towards the centre of the market.

"You could try work like that, son."

Iain looked at his father in surprise thinking such encouragement would more naturally come from his grandfather. Holding up his near useless left hand, he shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe." _Maybe._

"Only need one good hand, and you always had an eye for detail. Not many men realise it's the little things that make up a whole."

Callum's smile included him and Iain felt the warm glow of his father's pride. They'd not talked a lot since the incident at the tavern, but with this, Iain felt his father reaching out to him again and he reached back.

"It's as you taught me, dad."

The setting sun and quiet of evening were defied by the festivities. Torches blazed about the town square, musicians began to coordinate and picnickers gave way to dancers.

Iain sought Finola's company early in the evening, shortly after passing his mother off to his father. Normally he'd dance with his sister at that point, but as Rafi would not be with him this festival, and he'd felt her absence on and off all day, more so than usual, he decided to avail himself to the local lasses. If he danced with enough of them, any attention paid to one would not seem so particular.

Finola's smile lit up her entire face and he led her out in a very gentlemanly fashion. She smelled enticing and the tickle of her fingers across his palms as guided her through the steps of the dance proved hard ignore. Studying her lovely features, Iain thought about giving up and giving in. It had been a while since he'd kissed a woman, felt her curves, and Finola had always interested him. If he'd not been promised to Highever...

The music ended and he bowed before her. "Thank you for the dance, Finola."

She pouted rather appealingly. "Shall we have another?"

"Maybe later? I have to dance with my cousins or they'll feel neglected." He offered her a wink and Finola flushed prettily and let him go.

Iain went to find his cousins. The MacKinnons were distantly related to the Douglases and they had two daughters he could take out to the dance floor without risk of complication. The upside (and Iain liked any situation which benefited two parties), was that the girls would be thrilled by his attention and his mother would think him sweet to make the effort. He took the older out first, a girl of sixteen who did not stop smiling the entire time. She wore a dark orange dress and had twisted green leaves into a small circlet to wear in her hair.

"You look just like an autumn princess, Sara."

She blushed and flushed and gripped his hands throughout the dance and Iain grinned at the sight of her, remembering how Serafina's own attitude at that age, how she might punch him lightly on the arm if he complimented her, then try to hide her pleased smile. He danced two dances with Sara, partly out of sentimentality. Despite her different manner, she reminded him somewhat of his sister. Her obvious delight in his attention warmed him, it felt good to do something that pleased someone else and, beneath his teasing banter, Iain harboured a generous nature.

Then he danced with his younger cousin. He approached the ten year old girl and gave her a very formal bow. "May I have this dance, Claire?"

"It's Clarabelle tonight, if you please," she answered in a serious tone and Iain smiled widely. He spun her out to the floor in a vigorous manner and her squeal had him and several other couples laughing. The music took an upbeat turn and he led her through two energetic dances.

At the end, he returned her to her sister's side. As he prepared to bid her goodnight, 'Clarabelle' beckoned him forward. "I want to tell you a secret!" she said in a loud whisper. Iain lowered his head so she could pass on her clandestine thoughts. As his cheek came level with her face, she launched herself forward and pressed her lips firmly to his skin, catching him half on the ear.

Iain laughed and caught her in a hug. "Thank you, Clarabelle, I think that's the sweetest kiss I've ever had." It probably was.

He wandered towards the tavern and the impromptu bar they had set to that side of the town square thinking he deserved an ale. The Darrow boys, all four of them, were clustered at one end, close to a small bonfire that radiated heat into the night and served as a good gathering spot to drink and watch the dancing.

"Done kissing your cousins?" Jim enquired.

Chuckling, Iain made a kissy face at the younger man and ordered a drink for himself.

Clinton's betrothed stood close by, and Iain nodded towards her before commenting, "Sybil looks well this evening, Clinton."

"Aye and I'll not take exception to you dancing with her. I think she'd like to say hello."

Smiling at the good natured offer, Iain said, "Thanks. Another dance where I can avoid Finola."

The men laughed.

"You could do worse if you plan on stayin' in Stormgard, eh?" Jim put in.

"I suppose," Iain mused. He did not want to think about his future then and there, he wanted to drink and dance and have fun.

He danced with Sybil and then he danced with Finola again. She joined him for another drink with the Darrow party and Iain relaxed and chatted with his friends. The warmth of the fire and the alcohol, the music and atmosphere, the light weariness to his limbs from dancing, all combined to ease his misgivings. He found himself thinking perhaps it would not be so bad to settle. He enjoyed the company of the Darrow boys, more so now that they'd all grown up, and he liked working with his father and his grandfather. And Finola had many fine qualities beyond her sweet face and womanly curves.

When he contemplated things more deeply, despite not wanting to (and he decided at about that point he'd had enough to drink), an emptiness tugged at him though. His twin did not feature in a future at Stormgard and neither did the skills he'd spent over ten years acquiring. Iain did not know if he'd ever willingly lift a sword again, but felt he owed it to his family and himself to at least find out. He realised, on some level, a future in Stormgard appealed because it was limbo, the space between. He made no decisions, he merely allowed the whims of others to guide him.

He wondered, then, if he'd ever actively made a decision, for himself. Had he only wanted to be a knight because it would please his father? Because it allowed him to stay with his sister? Not at first. As a boy of eight he'd wanted it with the same fervor as Callum. He'd been raised on tales of the deeds he'd accomplish as a man of honor and chivalry. When he hit the age of fourteen or so though, doubt had taken hold. He chafed against the discipline and while he knew he wasn't stupid, he'd not grasped the concepts of strategy and history as well as his sister. He wasn't the gentleman that Markham was. He felt inferior to both of them and had acted out more to compensate. It had been no wonder he'd supposed himself 'left behind' when Rafi went to Ostagar.

Remembering their last evening on the beach, when he had destroyed the drum, always made him wince. He hated that that was his last memory of his twin. In typical fashion, he'd let his emotions get the better of him and he'd acted without thought, much like a child. Then she'd been proven right, he'd been left in Highever for a very specific purpose, one he'd failed at.

Iain put his barely touched ale aside. He felt morose, not happy, and the music and conversation of his friends had receded into a muffled sound behind his bleak mood. Shrugging off his sudden melancholy, he left the circle of young people, unaware they'd stopped talking to watch his silent departure. He skirted the dancers and went to stand by the musicians, hoping the beat would find its way inside him and drown out thought and sorrow. After a while it seemed to work and as he watched the dancers he felt his mood begin to lift.

A swirl of dark, curled hair caught his eye and he saw Martin and his girl dancing. He watched them for a moment, not really looking for inappropriate behaviour and not really feeling as if he was entitled to, given his mood and his memories. He merely looked on, slightly jealous of Martin, the couple. A hand fell lightly against his arm.

"Thinking of causing trouble?"

He looked over at Finola and shook his head. "No."

"I heard about the other night." She tilted her head and smiled at him, her expression almost maternal. "You men are such funny creatures, defending the honor of a woman you barely know." She nodded toward the dancing couple. "She likes him like that, you know. Rhoda's been after Martin for months."

"It didn't look like it..."

"She likes to play games."

"I see." Iain studied Finola's expression, wondering if this was the point in the conversation where she mentioned she also liked playing games. Normally he'd rise to the occasion (figuratively and literally), he enjoyed flirting. Tonight, however, he felt hemmed in and yet also outside of things. Apart.

"We can just talk, Iain. You don't need to build me a house in the spring." Her eyes sparkled with humour and Iain felt his mouth quirk upwards at the expression. "We used to be friends."

_When we were younger and you didn't have breasts._ He tried not to look the front of her dress.

She tugged on his hand. "Come dance with me, we'll give the village something to gossip about."

"Finola, I don't..."

"Sh, it's just dancing, silly. Then you can walk me home and tell me a story of your adventures at sea. I'll let you kiss me if you like." She arched a brow and he grinned at her, thinking that would be rather nice.

"I would not ruin your reputation with a kiss," he quipped, feeling his good humour returning, brought back by her kindness and offer of friendship.

"Oh, you won't." She winked. "I've not been saving myself for you, Iain MacKinnon."

So they danced some more and when the hour had grown late, but not ridiculously so, Iain walked Finola home. He told her a story and she hung off of every word. While they walked and he talked, he thought about her lips and her dress, the figure beneath. His mind drifted to what he'd like to do before wandering back to what would be more proper. Finola Aiken might have given him an invitation, but he'd not take her up on that one, instead he'd accept her simple offer of companionship. He realised he'd done her a disservice by forgetting they used to be friends. He'd thought of her as woman first and a person afterwards. A mistake he made too often.

They stopped at the gate to her house and Iain prepared to say goodnight. The tension of the moment had his stomach slightly knotted as he'd not quite decided if she'd take a kiss as a promise of something more. Then she lifted her chin just so and he bent towards her on instinct alone, the rest of him following the course of his lips as he pressed them to hers. Through sheer will he kept the kiss chaste and pulled back, after a lingering only a moment beyond what might be proper, to give her a warm and friendly smile. If she was disappointed, she hid it well.

"Goodnight, Finola."

"Goodnight, Iain."

He continued home, feeling weary from dancing and thought, but happy he'd recovered a friend.


	12. Pie

Pie

Gavin and Callum did not follow a particular schedule of days. They worked when the weather allowed, tinkered with their projects when it did not and, every now and then, simply took a day off.

"House needs to sit today," Callum declared over breakfast.

"You need to sit today," Theresa answered, stooping to kiss her husband's temple in passing.

Iain chuckled and Gavin's face crinkled in amusement.

"I need to sit," his grandfather said. "Let's get a roaring fire going, mull some cider, tell some stories, sing some songs and hope for snow."

Iain stretched languidly and let out a deep sigh. "That," he agreed cheerfully, "sounds like a plan."

Snow could mean more sitting, but Callum and Gavin would not stay idle for long. Both men worked hard and would be trudging through the snow after a day or two, looking for repairs to be made or something to build. Sometimes they turned their attentions inward, sanding and re-staining furniture or the sturdy beams that supported the ceilings of their own house. Needless to say, despite new finishes on her beloved furniture, Theresa tended to prefer they turn their attentions outward.

The fire was built up and soon a cozy warmth filled the large central room of the house. Gavin pulled out his knife and a basket of off cuts and set to whittling. He'd probably carve something after he 'tuned' his knife. Callum sketched house plans, Theresa bustled about, her routine thrown off by a houseful of men, and Iain grabbed his sketchbook and took it to the couch. Then he fell asleep. He didn't often nap, but the atmosphere of the room and house enticed. He felt safe, warm and comfortable and he slept deeply and dreamlessly.

When he awoke for the second time that morning, his belly rumbled. Theresa had made soup for lunch, something equally as warm and comforting as the room itself.

"I might never set foot outside again!" Iain said as he sat at the table to eat.

Ruffling his curls, Theresa said, "Oh, yes you will. You'll be bouncing off the walls this time tomorrow."

"Or this afternoon, he's just slept again, Tessa."

"I think we can keep him busy for a little while." His mother set a basket of apples in front of him, then a small knife. "Will you peel these while I make the pastry?"

_Mm, pie..._ "Sure," Iain answered without hesitation. He finished his soup and set to work. For a while he simply peeled the apples, then he began to play with the shape of peelings, carving them into patterns, fluted, then rippled, thin, fat. Every now and then he snacked on the peelings. He picked up the last apple and instead of peeling it, tried to carve a picture into the skin. He managed to hold it quite firmly in his left hand – he'd been inside all day and the joints did not feel stiff with cold – and started with some curved lines, what he thought looked like the sea, then began with the ship.

"Iain..."

"Mm?" He looked up, a piece of apple peel poking from between his lips – he'd forgotten it as he became absorbed in his project.

His mother chuckled at his apple carving and nodded to his row of peeled apples. "I need them sliced, not carved into pictures."

With a grin he put his piece of art aside and began slicing. By the time he'd finished, Theresa had cleared a section of table and had begun rolling out the pastry. They had enough apples for two pies so Iain stood and picked up the second ball of dough and began rolling it out beside her. His mother looked over in surprise.

"Watch that bit..."

"I know mum, trust me. I've actually made a few pies." He folded over a long corner and rolled it out fresh, then pinched a piece of dough from one end to thicken another. He looked up when he felt the weight of three stares. "What?"

Callum laughed. "I supposed when you said you could cook that you meant throw something in a pot."

"Well I can do that too!" Iain chuckled. "And I know how long to leave it there for." He winked at his father and then reached for some flour to sprinkle over his pastry before reapplying the rolling pin, the warmth of the room had made it slightly tacky.

Iain did not think he'd ever seen his mother smile quite so widely as she did when he began assembling the pies – properly. Then he reached for some spices she did not usually use. "Try this," he said, shaving a touch of ginger across the apples in the second pie before laying another sheet of pastry over the top. Then he began carving decorative shapes from the scraps of pastry and sticking them to the pies.

"I bet Finola would be tickled to know you can cook. She's quite the baker herself, you know."

Iain glanced at his mother and kept his humour. "I'll just bet she is," he said, raising his brows suggestively.

He heard a chuckle from the other side of the room and glanced over to see his grandfather shaking his head.

Theresa smiled and touched his hand. She looked down at the pie. "It looks lovely, Iain. It will be a shame to cut it."

Giving his mother a look, he replied, "Mum, it's pie. I, for one, will have no trouble cutting it."

A knock on the front door interrupted their exchange and Iain went to answer it while his mother moved the pies to the oven. A stranger stood there and Iain looked at him blankly for a moment before greeting him.

"Can I help you, ser?"

**"Just got a letter for you, mate. MacKinnon, right?"**

The man handed over a thick square of parchment and Iain looked down at the lettering. A cold shiver passed over his shoulders and down his spine. He recognised Rafi's writing.

**"You right there?"**

Looking up, Iain gave the man a vague nod and moved to close the door. Then he remembered his manners. "Oh, you want to come in and warm up?"

**"No, got more letters. Say hello to Callum for me, eh?"**

"Right, right..." Iain closed the door somewhat distractedly and turned to look at the empty space behind him. He could hear his parents and grandfather conversing in the kitchen and the memory of the warm and inviting atmosphere of the large room evaporated as he considered the letter in his hand.

The letter was addressed to his parents, he could not open it, but he already knew part of what would be inside. Or what would not be... any mention of him being alive. He'd never mailed his letter. Rafi still did not know he had returned to Ferelden. His gut tightened as Iain swallowed his guilt and he closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall. He let out a sigh. The young boy inside urged him to hide the letter and his secret, the man who missed his sister wanted to open it and read her words. Why had he not written, what did he fear?

"Iain?" his father called. "You there?"

"Yeah..." Taking a deep breath, Iain walked into the cheery room and tried not to flinch as all three faces looked up expectantly. He held out the letter. "It's from Rafi."

Giving him a curious look, Callum rose from his seat and took the folded paper. He studied the front, then turned it over to open it. A smaller sheet fell into his hand and he looked at it, pocketed it, then scanned the larger letter. As he read, a smile spread across, then it faltered and died. Iain stood still and waited for the inevitable. At the end, his father looked up and Iain could not read the expression on the man's face. Hurt, anger, confusion? Callum passed the letter to Theresa, who had approached to stand by his side and had been looking back and forth between father and son.

She took the letter and Callum waited until she'd read it before asking his question. "Why?"

"I don't know," Iain answered truthfully.

Theresa looked up, dismay written across her features. "Iain... why did you tell me you had written?"

"I did, mum, I wrote a letter, I... just didn't send it." Iain sighed and fiddled with the scar on the side of his face, tracing the line absently. "I've written her so many letters and I sent none of them, it's like this weird habit I can't break. I don't know how to describe how it feels when I think of sending one." His words came out in a rush; they always did when he had to 'explain' himself. "I didn't really mean to lie, I'm sorry."

"She's your sister. I don't understand..."

"That makes two of us."

"Iain!" his father said sharply.

Instead of apologising for speaking rudely, Iain left the room. How could he make them understand something he failed to comprehend himself? He went to his bedroom and sat heavily on the bed. Behind him he heard a familiar sound, the voices of his parents raised in argument – over him. He couldn't hear the words, only the tone.

He tried again to figure out why he had never sent the letter. One word surfaced in his mind: fear. This did not clarify his thoughts, the fear felt formless; he couldn't attach it to anything in particular. He'd not realised the voices had dropped away in the other room until he felt a presence in the doorway. Iain looked up, expecting to see his grandfather or perhaps his father. His brows rose in surprise when he saw his mother standing there.

She didn't speak; she looked at him for a minute then came to sit next to him on the bed.

"Mum..."

"Sh." She slipped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him to her side. She smelled like apples and pastry, she smelt like home. The tightness in his gut rose to his chest.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. For being rude, for lying, for being a coward.

"I think I understand, Iain," she said quietly. Iain glanced over at her and wondered why she'd chosen not to yell, but rather comfort him. It made as little sense as his inability to write a letter to his sister. "I lost a brother, remember?" she continued.

Iain nodded. The uncle he'd never met. They had named him for Theresa's brother – Iain Aaron MacKinnon.

"It's not a natural thing..."

"No, it's not." Iain shook his head. "At first I didn't know, there was too much..." helooked at his mother and almost winced at the softer echo of his own features. He did not want to see that face while he thought of the dungeon. He'd been going to say he'd been in too much pain, that he always thought he'd missed the moment Rafi had died and that that had been almost as unbearable as thinking her dead. "...I always thought I'd know when she died, that I'd feel..." he trailed off. "Did you... know?"

"No. We were close, but not like you and Sera. I still miss him, though, you are somewhat like him."

"Oh?"

"Aaron liked to draw too, but he could sit still for longer."

A smile flickered across his face and Iain dropped his gaze to his lap.

His mother squeezed his shoulder again before speaking softly. "I know you are afraid. I'm your mother, remember, I've seen every expression you have." She paused to draw in a quiet breath. "It's alright to be scared, you know."

His brows drew together in the sort of frown that tries to hold back irrational tears. "I wish I understood why," he murmured. If he had a direction for that formless fear, he could follow it, defeat it.

"Because you might lose her again?"

_Yes._ The revelation squeezed his heart.

Beneath the worry that Rafi might not need him as much as he needed her, or that she might need more than he could give, lingered the pain he didn't like to touch, the wound that hurt more than anything he'd endured beneath Vigil's Keep. The loss of someone he loved deeply and the echo of his loneliness. The absence of his twin. He'd been alone for two years and he did not know if he could not be alone anymore.

"She's waiting for you, Iain. She needs you."

The full import of his mother's words hit him then. His sister lived on thinking him... gone. She still suffered the pain he had harbored for so long. He was hurting her every day he stayed away. He tried to choke back a sob and failed.

Theresa's arms circled him and he leaned into his mother and cried as he had not done aboard the ship. He'd hugged his grief to himself for over a year and a half, he'd never properly mourned his sister. It did not seem odd that he did so now, when he knew she was alive. He still needed to let it out. His mother stroked his hair for him, just as she'd done when he was eight years old. The action calmed him immeasurably and, as his wiped his nose, he caught first whiff of their baking pies.


	13. Persistence

Persistence

Iain smiled as he surveyed the mess of objects spread across his bed. He could almost hear Rafi behind him, shaking her head at the disarray. She'd be surprised, he thought, to note that he normally kept his things a little tidier than he had in the past. He'd had to on board _La Stella Cadente_; their quarters had been tight and anything left on the floor for too long tended to roll away and get lost.

He could think of his sister with a lighter heart now, though he still felt the guilt of not having written to her in the six weeks he'd been home. That oversight would soon be rectified, however, as he delivered all of his letters to her personally. Highever lay only three days walk from West Hill and if he could find a caravan heading east tomorrow afternoon, he'd be there by week's end. Energy swept through the young man and he stuffed all of his belongings in his pack, not stopping to fold his shirts or match his socks. What did one odd sock matter?

As if summoned by the thought of his name, Socks wandered in and brushed past his legs. Iain bent over to pick up his cat and hugged the furred body to his chest for a moment.

Scratching between Socks' ears he murmured, "We're going walking again tomorrow, Socks."

Socks purred.

Chuckling, Iain let Socks go and resumed packing his things.

A soft knock sounded behind him and Iain looked up to see his father hovering in the open doorway. They'd spoken a little the evening before, nothing momentous, an apology from Iain, a few words in return from Callum. He had told his son he understood, sort of, and Iain could see it in his eyes, that struggle to make sense of things. Then, this morning, when Iain announced his intent to leave for Highever the next day, Callum looked relieved.

Iain waited for his father to speak, knowing the man had chosen to visit him for a reason, that what he wanted to say would be for his son's ears only. Callum pulled a small piece of paper from his pocked and Iain recognised it as the folded sheet that had fallen from Rafi's letter. He handed it over and Iain took it. After studying his father's face a moment longer, Iain unfolded the sheet and read:

_Papa,_

_I cannot hide it any longer from you. I have nowhere, no one else to whom I can turn._

He read about his sister's difficulties in learning to use different weapons. The letter both sounded like her but not. It had Serafina's tone, but none of the innate confidence he had always admired in his twin. He recognised the emotion behind her words though, the frustration at not being able to grasp something new, the fear of disappointing her father and thoughts of giving it all up. It was like reading a letter from himself.

Looking up from the page at last, Iain wondered why his father had shown him the letter. Callum was not a vindictive man; he would not aim to hurt him with his sister's distress, of that he felt sure. He had another purpose in mind.

After a moment's thought, Iain made a tentative guess. "You want me to help her."

"She's having a rough time, Iain."

"I..." Iain took a breath and shook his head. "I don't know if I can." A small flutter of panic passed across his chest. "I'm not, I..." That fear of disappointment gripped him, the same he'd felt in Rafi's letter and on his own throughout the years. Better to outright state his failure now than report it later. "I can't, dad."

"Iain, you trained with a sword from the age of six, with a shield from ten. You worked side by side with your sister; you two know each other's style better than any other. Who better to help?"

Could he tell his father he did not know if he would return to squiring? Would Callum be horribly disappointed or disgusted? Iain's plan, currently, was to return to Highever and see his sister. Maybe he'd take a laboring job or he had enough gold to do nothing for a while if he wanted to. Of course, the gold could also be used to purchase new armour to replace what he'd lost, to buy a better sword, a shield. He didn't even know if he could walk back between the gates of Castle Cousland though, let alone pick up a sword and swear fealty to a new teyrn.

Iain glanced up at his father. Callum was a hero; he had saved Bryce Cousland's life at the battle of White River. He'd secured a place in Highever for his children and the possibility of a knighthood. Iain felt a weight settle back onto his shoulders, the pressure to live up to an expectation he'd begun to chafe against two years before, and he straightened his posture against it. He drew on what had got him through the battle against Howe's men, past his ordeal in the dungeon and carried him to the end of his bargain with Captain Idowu. Persistence.

Folding the letter, he handed it back. "Alright, I'll try." He owed it to his father, his sister and himself to make the attempt.

Callum smiled and gripped his shoulder. "It will be just like old times, eh?"

Mustering up a smile and injecting it with the enthusiasm he'd felt earlier, the desire to see his sister and his eagerness to be on the road, Iain nodded and put his hand over his father's. "Aye."

"I'll write to her then, tell her you're coming?"

Iain's smile became a grin of mischief. "Just tell her you're sending her something that might help, dad, then let me surprise her. Likely I'll get there a day after your letter."

With a chuckle, Callum agreed to the plan. "Sure, why not." His father had a sense humour after all.

After Callum left, his mother breezed in with an armful of cloth. She began speaking before setting her stuff down. "Now I've got some shirts here for you and Sera, some new ones." She looked up from the pile, her eyes measuring the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his arms before narrowing as she noted the loose fit of his current shirt. "You need to eat more, Iain, you're too thin." With that out of the way she picked up the first shirt, one of a mossy green colour, and held it up against his chest. "Oh, my. Yes. This one is for you, obviously." She let it go and Iain moved his hands up to catch it before it fell to the floor.

The cloth felt smooth, much finer than the shirts he'd become used to wearing aboard _La Stella Cadente_ and he smiled at the colour. He liked it. It would match his eyes. He'd not worn anything but plain, rough cotton for a couple of years. His mother had made him two shirts since he'd been home, both cut from the same cloth as his father's and grandfather's, a grey sort of blue and designed to withstand weather and work. Theresa had been making him shirts like that his whole life, but every now and then she made him a special one. He now owned five shirts. He'd never owned so many...

Theresa pulled the two rough shirts from his pack. "You won't be needing these old things..." He now only owned three shirts again. "Here I've made you another one too." She held up a red shirt.

Iain's smile spread wide. "You made me a red shirt."

"Well, it's your favourite colour, isn't it?"

"Thanks, mum." He enveloped woman and shirt in a hug.

After disengaging herself, Theresa flipped through the rest of the material. "There are two new ones here for Sera and write to me when you get there and tell me if she needs breeches or, well, she'll write to me too and..." she trailed off and just stood smiling at him.

"What?"

"I'll miss you, Iain."

"I'll write to you the very minute I see Rafi, alright? I'll stop mid-hug, pull out a pen and write it all down, right away. I'll tell Rafi she has to wait to shower me with hugs and kisses in return," he waved his hands about to indicate the rain of adulation, "because I _have_ to send a letter to mum, she's waiting by the door for it, and I'll make sure she watches as I mail it, because Rafi never tells lies, and then she can write too and tell you all about it."

"Oh, Iain..." She seemed to be smiling and weeping at the same time. "You are so silly." The smile won out and turned into a soft laugh which became a little hiccup at the end. He had to hug her again.

After his mother left, Iain waited for his grandfather. He smiled as he waited and imagined himself standing there all evening, bag half packed while he received a line of visitors.

Gavin appeared on cue, the drum in his hand. "Got room for your drum?"

Taking a deep, chest expanding breath, Iain said, "Yes."

Unlike his previous visitors, his grandfather had nothing of import to say. He merely sat on the bed and chatted amiably about the weather, road conditions and the oddness of traveling with a cat. Iain appreciated the old man's company. He'd always felt comfortable around his grandfather, but this visit they'd become closer than ever. It wasn't just the shared knowledge of the dungeon, or the day at the beach, it was something less definite but more important. A tacit acceptance. Gavin never asked him to be other than who or what he was and Iain always felt he could be just himself with his grandfather.

The rest of the evening passed in story and song. It could have been any evening at the MacKinnon household, instruments across laps, voices raised together, but an atmosphere warmer than the fire and sweeter than the second apple pie filled the room. Iain absorbed it all, made a place inside himself for it. He'd need it, he knew that. Returning to Stormgard had been difficult, but a harder path lay ahead.

Captain Idowu had offered him a place, if he didn't find what he looked for. Iain still felt the pull of the ocean, but mostly as a lull to his more turbulent thoughts. Maybe one day he'd return to the sea and he'd be welcome there. In the meantime, however, he'd try to help Rafi and he'd try to meet his father's expectations. He'd please his mother and remember that his grandfather loved him regardless. And if he failed, he knew could return here, always. Because this was home.

_((OOC: Iain leaves Stormgard on 12/14))_

_"Whoo!" __*shoves Iain out of the way*. I've got a little 'Author's Note' to put down here. If you made it this far, thanks for reading! This story has been a fabulous way to introduce Iain to the boards. Thanks for the positive comments and encouragement along the way. :)_

_I'd also like to thank Serafina's player (ladyamesindy) for her contributions. The MacKinnon family belongs to both of us and she had as much a part in fleshing them out for this story as I did. _


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